The Wild

Linda Nagata

Published by Mythic Island Press LLC

Kula, Hawaii

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously.

The Wild

Copyright © 2011 by Linda Nagata.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Electronic ISBN 978-1-937197-16-2

Cover Art Copyright © 2013 Mythic Island Press LLC

Digital Painting by Sarah Adams – www.mythicislandpress.com/SarahAdams

Mythic Island Press LLC

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Kula, HI 96790-1293

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~ Prelude: Summer Thunder ~

A faint, menacing rumble of faraway thunder rolled through the mist. Lanyon Kyramanthes heard it and turned sharply in the saddle. Behind her the mist had transformed a line of riders into fading silhouettes. Again the thunder rumbled, growling down their trail. Her horse snorted, pulling hard to the right—and her doubt vanished. “We are going the wrong way!”

She reined in her horse, determined not to stray another step. “Jahallon!” she called out. “War Father.”

He rode at the head of the column. She could not even see him until he came cantering back along the line. As he pulled his horse up he eyed the tiny, warm bundle of her newborn daughter asleep in a carrier against her chest. Her son, who was already one and a half years in the world, was farther back in the line, in the doting care of those women who served as Jahallon’s couriers. “Lanyon, do you need to stop?”

To the casual eye, Jahallon could seem an ordinary man—his broad shoulders might draw notice, or the odd coppery color of his clipped hair; otherwise he appeared as any warrior in his prime—but this was only the surface of things, the thin skin of creation. Jahallon-the-Undying was bound to a deeper place. Time could not catch him in its current. Alone among the people he could not grow old and he could not die, yet he was loved, not feared, and his willful descendants felt easy enough in his company that they did not hesitate to speak their minds.

“War Father, we have strayed in the mist! I know it. We are going the wrong way.”

And after all, Jahallon didn’t know this land. He’d never visited the Citadel of the Snow Chanter, even though the bitter history that had kept him away was long since crumbled to dust. On this, his first journey into the heart of Samokea, he relied on a senior captain to guide the column, but Lanyon could see he had his own doubts. “You’re listening to Siddél’s thunder?” he asked her.

“Why does it lie behind us? Should we believe the monster has gone south to trouble Habaddon? Or is it more likely Siddél cleaves to custom, growling and threatening from the escarpment of the Tiyat-kel where no arrows can reach him? He can be heard there almost every afternoon from the ramparts of the Citadel. But that is not all. My horse remembers her home. She fights to turn north... or what I think is north. I’m certain we’re not going north now. We have lost our way.”

The riders behind were coming up one by one, gathering around them, while those who were ahead stopped and looked back.

Jahallon too looked back the way they had come, glaring into the mist as if he could part it merely by the fierceness of his gaze. His age and his long experience had given him a disturbing prescience so that he could foretell an outcome from the least clues, whether on the battlefield or in the hearts of his people. He had also an unrelenting temper.

Fixing his gaze on Lanyon he asked, “Did you summon this mist?”

“No! Why must you think ill of me? Édan is my husband and it was always my intention to return to him.”

“You should not have left the Citadel without telling him, when he was gone to war and you with child.”

“I have already said I was wrong. I cannot undo it.”

How foolish she felt now!

Not so, then, when the cold stone of the Citadel had seemed impervious to the spring. Where was the trickling snowmelt? The glint of new leaves and delicate flowers? The shy face of the sun, lost and found again behind roving clouds? After Édan had gone, such a longing came over her to return for a time to the bright forests of Habaddon, and to visit her friends there, and truly, she meant to stay only a little while. So when a company of couriers set out, she took her son and went with them.

But the campaign dragged on past all expectation. Spring edged into summer and no company could be spared to escort her back to the Citadel. When the army finally did return Lanyon was so close to term the midwives wouldn’t let her undertake the ride. So her daughter wasn’t born in the land of Samokea as she should have been, but in Habaddon. Now the infant was twenty-three days old, and though Édan had been back at the Citadel of the Snow Chanter for twice that time, he had not come south to see his daughter, nor sent any word.

“I cannot undo it!” Lanyon said again. “And I am returning to him now—or I would if this mist did not hinder us and set us on false paths.”

Jahallon nodded. “I loathe this blind wandering.” Then he lifted his gaze, to address the riders gathered around them. “Let us find a place to raise the tents. We will go no farther until this mist gives way.”

~~~

Leaving her tiny daughter in the care of the other women, Lanyon took her son walking, letting him play and clamber in the wet grass. She made sure to smile at his antics, even though her thoughts were dark, haunted by Jahallon’s question, Did you summon this mist? She had not. She did not know how, but she too wondered at the nature of the mist. It was an unseasonable fog, persisting in defiance of the summer sun, and its effect was to resist her return to the Citadel.

Édan, Édan.

She called to him silently, but Samokea was a vast land and he was too far away to hear.

The mist though, listened.

It rolled slowly, turning, drawing itself into the shape of a diaphanous woman adrift above the grass. Gray was her hair, her skin, her eyes. She was one of the Inyomere that were the spirits of the Wild. And to Lanyon she said, “Why do you call to him? He doesn’t want you to come.”

Lanyon picked up her son and held him close. “Did Édan send you to hinder me?”

The Inyomere of the mist drifted nearer, her hair billowing in wide, soft clouds. “I have heard his lamentations and the prayers he whispers in the night. He says, ‘Do not let her come home to me. Do not let her come home. Better for her if she is lost in the Wild. Do not let her come home.’”

Lanyon shook her head, astonished at such tidings. Yet the Inyomere did not ever lie. “Why would he speak thus? What does he intend?”

The mist looked bemused. It was not her way—nor was it the way of most of her kin—to ask why or what was to come. She was of the petty Inyomere: minor spirits of forest and meadow, stream and pool, the thickets, and the summer rain. Time and purpose were of little consequence to her. Only a few among the greater Inyomere could be troubled by such things.

The Inyomere of the mist stooped even lower. She peered at Lanyon’s son. He clung to his mother, as silent and still as a wild thing hiding in the grass, but his wide eyes did not turn away from the soft gaze of the mist. She smiled. “When I look on him I remember his far mother the Snow Chanter. His blood remembers her. She has given to him the will of the Inyomere.”

“He is so much like his father,” Lanyon whispered.

“Heed me, little sister. Do not go to Édan. He does not want you.”

“That is something he must tell me himself, Blessed One. I beg you to relent. Unveil the sun and let us ride on.”

“Come what may?” she asked softly.

“Come what may,” Lanyon agreed.

So in her rich voice the mist called for a wind to come, a breeze that hissed through the grass, and under its caress she turned and twisted, slowly fading from Lanyon’s sight.

~~~

The cloud-wrapped peaks of the Tiyat-kel stood revealed. The tents were packed. The company set out again and this time Siddél’s rumbling thunder was where it should be, on their right hand, which was east. That day passed, and on the next they expected to reach the Citadel of the Snow Chanter by evening. But in late afternoon, as they rode through a grassy vale, there arose from the western forest a sound that put every rider on guard: the dreadful baying and wailing of hunting arowl.

At first the hue and cry of the arowl pack was far away, but very soon it drew nearer. The baby began to cry and she would not be comforted. Even so young, she knew their peril. All along the column bows were uncased and spears were made ready for yet another battle in the Long War that had been fought generation by generation, almost since the people first set foot on the Wild’s southern shore. No one went unarmed. Lanyon held her own bow with arrow nocked, her arm crooked around her daughter to offer what solace she could while she watched the distant trees for any sign of movement.

The arowl were abominations, mad beasts conjured into life by the wrath of the Inyomere Siddél, who had made them to prey on the people. Siddél believed the people had come to the Wild by treachery, and that it was the will of the One who wakened the Inyomere that they should be destroyed, or driven back into the sea.

The howls of the arowl rent the air. The baby was screaming. A sharp command from Jahallon cut past the clamor and the warriors at either end of the column rode in to form defensive wings. Lanyon thought she saw shadows darting beneath the trees, but before she could be sure, the pack’s bloodthirsty baying abruptly transformed to notes of fear and wails of terror. Bestial screeches resounded through the groves. A panicked barking was snuffed beneath a distant rumble of galloping hooves. Seven or eight youths among the Habaddon men set heel to horse, lunging toward the trees but the captain bellowed at them to stop and get back into line. The distant hoof beats faded along with the last cries of the pack, leaving only the sound of wind soughing through the branches of the tallest trees.

~~~

Before they had gone another mile Édan came. He rode out of the forest with a hundred or more of his warriors around him, the tips of their spears bloody in the sunlight. The Habaddon men reined in their horses and cheered. They called out to their Samokeän allies in raucous greeting and in moments the two companies blended into one. Édan went first to see his son, hugging him, before handing him back to the woman who watched him. Next he went to Jahallon. They clasped hands and clapped shoulders, and Édan said, “You have long been welcome in my home, Far Father. At last you have come.”

“Go to her,” Jahallon urged him. “She has brought you a great gift.”

~~~

Lanyon had climbed down from her horse. She had taken her daughter from the chest carrier, cradling the baby in her arms as Édan approached. He saw her on the ground and he too slipped from the saddle. He walked to her, leading his horse. He was dressed in boots and a dark gray riding coat, with his sword in a back sling and his heavy black hair confined in a braid as was the custom of Samokeän men.

She had expected to see some cold expression on his face. Anger maybe; or contempt in his dark eyes. What she saw instead was a strange mingling of joy and grief. She glanced down at the baby. Then she held the infant out to him. “I have brought our daughter home.”

The baby started to cry as Édan took her, but he spoke to her softly and she was soothed. He kissed her forehead. Then he looked at Lanyon. “Let us go home.”

~~~

Édan wanted her to ride with him on his horse. So she climbed up first, with the baby safe again in the carrier. Édan sat behind her.

His people had not approved of their marriage. They mistrusted Lanyon’s affinity with the Inyomere. That was an irony, for all the Samokeäns were descended from one or another of the many children of the Inyomere Tayeraisa who was called the Snow Chanter.

Long ago, when the people had first begun to explore the northern lands, Tayeraisa had met the warrior Samoket, who was the last of Jahallon’s sons. Tayeraisa the Snow Chanter had been unique among the Inyomere. Curious and willful, it had pleased her to change herself to be as a woman of the people, and to take Samoket as her husband. Together they built the Citadel, and they brought forty-two children into the world, before death finally took Samoket away—and from the hour of his passing the Snow Chanter was not seen again.

But among their descendants many shared somewhat in the magic of the Inyomere. So it was with Édan. He was the sorcerer-chieftain of Samokea, armed with a magic far greater than any Lanyon could command. And still his people complained she had too much of the Inyomere in her, and this was why the spirits sought her out when they scorned other people. Yet this affinity was the root of Édan’s affection. It fascinated him that he could speak with her mind-to-mind as the Inyomere spoke to one another. It was a connection that had captivated him from the first hour they met, when he was seventeen and she only eleven.

Many times Jahallon had warned her that such a fascination was no substitute for love, but at sixteen it had seemed enough. She seduced Édan and by the time Jahallon allowed them to marry she was three months pregnant. Now she was nineteen, and the time for making choices was long past.

For some time they rode in silence. Édan held her close, and the baby slept. But Lanyon could not pretend there was peace between them, and at last she asked what was foremost in her mind. “Were you so angry? That you hoped I would not come home?”

“I was never angry.”

“No?” His denial provoked her temper. She quoted to him the words of the mist. “Don’t let her come home. Better for her if she is lost in the Wild.”

His breathing quickened. She felt the hammering of his heart. Finally he said, “I would not have tried to stop you, if you had taken our children away south to the safety of Hallah.”

“Édan!” She twisted around to face him, while the baby protested her temper in soft bleats. “How could you think such a thing? That I would abandon the Long War and yield what my father and my brothers—all my family, and yours—have died to defend? If this is what you think of me—”

“Hush, hush.” He kissed her at the corner of her mouth. “Say no more on it. I am chastened.”

She turned away from him, facing forward again. Her lips brushed her daughter’s warm, sweet-smelling scalp, a kiss of comfort for both of them. “Did you want me to take them away?”

He answered with a catch in his voice. “It was for you to decide.”

“It was never a choice.”

“Then you are braver than I am.”

She heard grief in his voice. It made her fearful. Édan had grown up on the battlefield; he was not easily shaken. “Édan, what has happened to you? Was it this last campaign? Jahallon said it was hard fought; that many of your warriors fell.”

His arms tightened around her. “It was the last battle. It almost broke us. It was the worst I’ve ever seen. Worse than the winter your father and your brothers were killed.”

“Tell me. I am not afraid.”

“We were at Nendaganon. We had come to the very rim of a great arowl pit and it came to us we should set it afire—set all the pits ablaze!—and put an end to Siddél’s stronghold. But that was a mistake.

“The fire drove forth the half-formed arowl... thousands of them. Lanyon, they were horrible to look on, skinless, ravening, mad as are all their kind for the blood of the people, but with no fear of death. I could not instill any fear in them, or beguile them, or confuse them in any way. They refused to hear my voice and accepted no command. Two-hundred-twelve men were lost to them, and it would have been more, but these arowl were flawed and unfinished. Their lives withered quickly. Those we did not slay soon died on their own.”

She turned again to look at him, too stunned at first to speak. Then she whispered, “Jahallon said nothing of this horror. I did not know.”

“He doesn’t understand how strong you are.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you returned.”

Again he kissed her. “I knew you would come home.” He looked east, to the cloud-shrouded peaks of the Tiyat-kel where the taunting voice of Siddél rumbled in tired threat. “All that we do, you and I, we do for the good of the people, no matter the cost.”

No matter the cost?

“Is there something you’re not telling me? Some deeper meaning behind your words? Say it now, so I don’t have to be afraid.”

“No,” he said softly, soothingly. “There’s nothing more to say. We are born to war, but for this hour at least, let us be at peace.”

~ The Snow Chanter ~

Chapter 1

In the city of Habaddon, in the library of Jahallon, a young warrior of Clan Samoket lingered late into the night. A single oil lamp suspended on chains illuminated a parchment book open to a page he had read many times before. He kept returning to it—this account of the long ago night when disaster had befallen Samokea.

Jahallon-the-Undying had been present that night, in the Citadel of the Snow Chanter, but even Jahallon had never unraveled the mystery of all that had happened, and why.

The manuscript told what was known, beginning with the banquet, held that evening...

...to celebrate the first visit of Jahallon to the Citadel of the Snow Chanter. As darkness fell Siddél’s thunder muttered and threatened, but the Samokeäns were accustomed to hearing the great Inyomere in his temper and it frightened them not at all. They went to their beds content, certain he would not dare to approach the city.

But beyond all expectation, Siddél came.

It was deep in the night when a great crash of thunder exploded above the Citadel. Jahallon sprang from his bed, to hear the mocking voice of the Inyomere Siddél shaking the stone walls. Long ago, Jahallon had wounded Siddél with his spear and it was for this affront that Siddél cursed him, proclaiming that death should not have him no matter his wounds or his grief; and that his fate would be to witness all the horror of the people’s downfall. But it was Jahallon who had ever after rallied the people in the Long War against Siddél and on that night it was the same.

Jahallon seized his bow and went outside. There he heard the monster roar Édan’s name, and these words “I am come! To see you slain by your own spell.”

Lightning struck the towers and the houses. Roofs were set afire. The thunder was deafening and all was chaos as Jahallon went to seek Édan.

He came too late. The tower where the Chieftain kept his household was aflame. Even as Jahallon drew near, the roof collapsed and sparks rose up as if from a great chimney. So it was that Édan, Chieftain of Samokea, was slain by the Inyomere Siddél, and his wife and children with him.

A madness of fear descended on the people, but Jahallon spoke to them.

He commanded them to gather their children and their weapons even as the walls of the city collapsed beneath the hammer of Siddél’s lightning. Many were crushed by falling stone or burnt to death by lightning fires. Many more were lost as a host of ravening arowl descended on the city. But Jahallon would not let the Samokeäns despair. He arranged their retreat, leading them south to the Glycian River in a running battle against a numberless horde of arowl.

Fewer than half the Samokeäns who had gone to sleep in the Citadel that night lived to cross the Glycian. It was learned later that no watch had been set that night. The walls were left unguarded. If there had been but one alert sentry with a bow, Siddél might have been turned away.

Yet it was not so.

And Samokea was lost to the arowl.

One hundred thirty-seven years had passed since that time.

The young warrior who read this account was himself Samokeän—a far son of those who had survived that terrible retreat. His name was Bennek of Clan Samoket and though he was just fifteen he already had much skill and experience in the hunting of the blood-hungry arowl.

Bennek was a lean youth of fair height, and not done growing yet. He wore his long hair in a neat braid down his back in the way of his Samokeän ancestors of old. His clothes were made by his own hands from the heavy cloth woven in Habaddon and from leather he had tanned, but the pendant that gleamed at his throat had come to him from his mother, and from her mother’s mother before that. It was gold openwork—vines twined in a shallow triangle, with a flaming sun rising from the downward point—made long ago in the smithies of the Citadel of the Snow Chanter. It was the only thing he possessed that had survived from that time.

For all his life Bennek had lived in the forest of Fathalia, at the eastern edge of the Protected Lands, where his family’s keep stood alone, far from any other settlement. He’d lived there with only his older brother and his cousin—both just seventeen. They might have been there still, but over the winter a rare patrol out of Habaddon had brought news of a muster to be called by the Samokeän captains-in-exile who rode with Jahallon-the-Undying. The boys were the sons of warriors and skilled at hunting arowl, so when spring came they left behind all they knew to venture to Habaddon and seek a place in the army—only to be disappointed in their hopes. The captains declared them too young and too unseasoned for battle. “Go home, grow in strength, and hone your skills.” The army had ridden out without them, embarked on another of the endless campaigns of the Long War.

But the boys had not gone home. They had spent the summer in and around Habaddon, hunting at need and camping on the shore or in the forest, while coming into the city as often as it pleased them. In that time Bennek had read every parchment and every book in the library and studied all the maps. Now summer was nearly over.

He stood and closed the old book, returning it to its place on the shelf. Once again he was last to leave the library. He blew out the oil lamp and made his way into the starlit streets.

Most of the city was asleep, but sentries patrolled the walls, and when he reached the city gate he was greeted by the two women standing watch. The older of them asked him, “Why do you and your kin sleep on the beach, Bennek? Do you not care for our city?”

He smiled. “Habaddon is a fine city, ma’am. But I am Samokeän, and since the fall of the Citadel, we have belonged to the Wild.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am Samokeän, yet I live within these walls.”

Bennek was startled. Nothing in her dress or bearing distinguished her from a woman of Habaddon. “Then it is your home,” he said softly, and he went on his way.

When he was eight he had asked his mother why they did not go to live in Habaddon, and she had answered, “It’s better to live in the Wild than to live by the charity of our Habaddon friends. You are Samokeän, Bennek. Never forget it! Never forget the homeland we have lost.” That was when she’d taken the pendant from her own neck and fastened it around his, “to remind you.”

Even as he made his way down the steep path to the cove his thoughts returned to the mystery of that long ago night. Why had the walls of the Citadel been left unguarded? What spell had the Chieftain Édan conjured that had consumed him?

Édan had been a great chieftain, more skilled in sorcery than any before him and beloved by his people and by Jahallon. Siddél’s arowl could hardly stand against him and in his day many believed the beasts would finally be driven from the Wild and that the Long War would come to an end. Then came his last battle in Nendaganon. The loss of life had been terrible. When Édan returned to the Citadel it was said he was not the same man.

Bennek looked across the cove to where their campsite was situated among the rocks. At first he could not see it, but as he started across the beach he noticed a figure standing atop one of the many boulders, gilded in the ruddy light of a cook fire. Bennek raised his hand in silent greeting and received a wave in return.

The ocean was quiet, its waves no more than ripples. Starlight sparkled in the water. Even the air was still, suffused with wood smoke and the delicious aroma of roasting fish. Bennek skirted the little fisher boats that were pulled up safe onto the sand each night. As he climbed up among the rocks, the sardonic voice of his cousin Kit spoke softly in the darkness somewhere above his head, “Ah, Bennek, you are so late we thought you had finally found a girl to take you home and feed you.”

“I have had such invitations,” Bennek said in all seriousness as he came around a boulder into camp. “I have declined them though, since Marshal has said we must muster here each evening.” He looked questioningly at his brother, who was crouched in the sand, setting more fish filets to roast over a bed of glowing coals. “Marshal, do you think I should accept instead?”

Marshal wasn’t much for humor, but for some reason a grin flashed across his face. “You would need to let us know.”

Kit jumped down from a rock. He was scowling. “You have had invitations?”

The three had grown up together and looked much alike, as close kin will. All wore their hair in long braids in the Samokeän style and all spoke with a formality learned from their mothers. Marshal was more broad-shouldered than either Kit or Bennek, and had the start of a neat beard on his chin, while Kit had sharper features. And of course Bennek—being two years younger—suffered in height. It was his lot that for as long as he could remember his brother and his cousin had both been at least a head taller than he.

Marshal and Kit were as close as twins. They had been born within days of one another and had never been apart, so although Marshal was soft-spoken and given to careful planning while Kit was so often brash in word and deed they seemed always to know what the other was thinking and they rarely disagreed.

Bennek had never shared in this easy harmony. For him, getting on with Kit took some care. He was sure the subject of girls would not gain him any peace, so he let it go. He had more exciting news.

“I saw a magic spell today.” All his life Bennek had heard tales of sorcery, but before today he had never seen a spell called—and neither had Marshal or Kit—so at once he had their full attention. “It was spoken by a sage. She didn’t realize I was there in the library. When she found out, she was angry. She did not want me to see it.”

“Why not?” Marshal asked. “Was it wicked?”

“I don’t know. It was a fire spell. She spoke it under her breath. I couldn’t make out the words, but I felt a strange presence brush past me. Then one by one each oil lamp was set aflame.”

“Was she Samokeän?” Kit asked.

Bennek nodded. Sorcery was found only among the Samokeäns, who were the descendants of the Snow Chanter, but even among them it was a rare talent—ever more so in the long years since the fall of Édan. “She was very old. The oldest person by far I have ever seen.”

“Did you ask her about it?” Marshal wondered. Bennek had a gift of far-seeing, and all of them wondered if he might have a talent for spell-calling too, but they knew no spells. Until today, they had come across no one else who did.

“I tried to speak to her, but she didn’t want to talk to me. She said if I was meant to know a spell like that, I would find it on my own. Then she left. I haven’t seen her before in the library, and I think now she will make sure I don’t see her again.”

~~~

Bennek and Kit went to sleep beside the campfire while Marshal stood watch. It was their custom for Marshal to take the first watch, Kit to stand guard in the middle night, and Bennek to keep the last watch before dawn.

So out of habit Bennek awakened as soon as Kit touched his shoulder. The fire had gone out, and the only light came from the stars. Taking his spear, Bennek walked a little away from the camp, climbing atop a boulder so that he could get a good view of the cove and the curve of the beach.

So it was that he alone was wakeful in the cold blue hour before dawn when an owl soared across the cove to alight on a pedestal of rock almost beside him, so close he could hear the scratch of its claws even over the sighing of waves on the beach.

Bennek had been leaning on his spear, but at once he found his balance and bowed, for he knew this was no owl, but a spirit that took that form. It was one of the Inyomere of the Wild.

The gray shape of the owl dissolved. In an eye-blink it became a small girl crouched on the rock, dressed in a gown of feathers, with a feather circlet to tame her long hair. The light of lingering stars glittered in her wide eyes as she peered at him, unblinking. When she spoke, it was in a whispery, scolding voice. “Bennek, how long will you tarry here when the wicked arowl still howl in your homeland? Come forth to the hunt before Siddél’s mad beasts devour all the Wild!”

Then the Inyomere became an owl again and leapt away into the air, soaring up from the cove, rising past Habaddon’s strong walls. A sentinel on the northern wall stopped her pace to watch the owl’s flight. All else was still. Even the prayer ribbons that usually snapped and fluttered above the walls hung limp on their poles in the quiet air.

Yet Bennek was aquiver. He turned and went swiftly to rouse his kin. “Marshal! Marshal, you must waken! Kit, you must not laugh when I tell you what has befallen us—”

Marshal appeared suddenly among the rocks, spear in hand. “What report?” he whispered. Kit was a shadow, looming behind him.

“It is no danger,” Bennek assured them. He glanced at the path that descended to the cove. Very soon the fishers would come that way to start another day upon the water, but they had not left the city gate just yet. “An Inyomere came to me just now. She spoke to me.” It was common enough to see the spirits, but seldom did they speak, and never before had any addressed Bennek by name, so there was wonder in his voice as he told them of the owl—yet his story did not rouse in them the joy he expected.

Kit turned to Marshal. “It is just the same!” he said in bitterness.

“The same?” Bennek asked. “The same as what?”

The rising light picked out a troubled look on Marshal’s face. “The very same words we heard last night. This owlish Inyomere came to me at first watch, and then in the middle night she came to Kit.”

“Kit did not say this when he wakened me—he said nothing!—yet you told it to one another?”

“Do not be angry.” Marshal touched his forehead. “Your sight is deepest, and we only hoped you would hear something different.”

“I have heard that we should seek our homeland, and this seems good to me! Marshal, we have been in Habaddon for all this summer. I have read all there is to read in the library and seen all the maps. What is left for us to do? I would have been happy to serve as a warrior in Jahallon’s army, but we were not allowed to do that and the army is long gone away without us. What reason is left for us to stay?”

Neither Kit nor Marshal had any good answer.

“There is nothing for us here,” Bennek insisted against his brother’s silence. “Let us be away. Marshal? You can’t mean to refuse the challenge of this owlish Inyomere?”

Marshal turned back to the cold ashes of the fire. “Bennek, it’s not in my heart to return to Fathalia. Not so soon as this.”

It was true they did not have much to go home to. Their warrior fathers had long ago fallen to the arowl, leaving their mothers to raise them together in the family keep. Their mothers had been as fierce as any warrior of Clan Samoket, teaching their sons forest-craft, hunting, reading, writing and weaponry, but in time they too perished, brought down by a pack of ravening arowl.

In the seven years since, the boys had lived mostly by their own will and wits, and much of that time had been spent hunting the wicked arowl so that the forest of Fathalia remained a wholesome place and the Inyomere there were happy and often seen. But they dreamed of greater deeds.

In bitterness Kit said, “I would not go back to Fathalia though all the Inyomere of the Wild command it.”

Bennek was only puzzled. “I do not understand you. The owl didn’t bid us to return to Fathalia. That is only where we were born. It is not our homeland.”

Then Kit looked at him with sharp eyes, but Marshal laughed in a contented way. He turned to Kit. “It is as I said. Bennek has heard it differently.”

“We are to go to Samokea,” Kit said in astonishment. Still, he could hardly believe it. He wanted to be sure. “We are agreed? That is the meaning?”

“It is clear,” Bennek insisted. “We are called to it.”

Marshal nodded, and though his eyes were merry, he spoke in a whisper as if they were on a hunt. “Jahallon’s captains would not have us, but this is a better thing—to give our service to the land that once belonged to our people.” He glanced toward the bluff, where the early light had begun to pick out the texture of Habaddon’s strong walls. On the path, the first of the fisher folk could be seen, making their way down to the cove. “Let us not speak it aloud again. The good people of Habaddon might make issue of our going.”

Kit was content. “Ah Bennek you require much looking after, but how shall I complain of it when you unravel such mysteries for us?”

“Your complaints are swift enough if I do not find arowl for you to hunt.”

Kit laughed—he could not deny this was true—but Marshal said, “Peace, men. Remember where we are bound, and let us be as one.”

Chapter 2

In Habaddon the women fished and farmed and kept the watch, and some among them hunted, but it was not their way to wander far from the walls, so meat was a rarity when the men were away to war. As a consequence, the hunting skills of the Samokeän boys had been much in demand, and several times they had brought back small forest deer, and once an elk calf. Their efforts were not forgotten. When they went around the city to make their farewells they were gifted with dried beef and venison, raisins, flatbread, roasted nuts and smoked fish. When the women asked where they were going, Marshal told them, “We are bound for our homeland, and will not return for some long time.” All who heard this assumed they meant to return to Fathalia.

At the gate the young woman whose turn it was to stand sentry wished them good fortune, “For the Wild is fickle and treacherous, and the Inyomere who keep it do not love us.”

“Ah, but they love the arowl less,” Kit replied, “and at the least we are well-armed.”

Each carried a spear, a sword, and a bow with many arrows. They had also a store of steel arrowheads, for though they could make arrowheads of stone, the steel heads were larger, and more deadly.

It was not yet noon when they set off down the wide path that led to the wheat fields and from there to the forest beyond. They had just started across the first field when they heard the sound of a wind rushing up the coast from the south. Bennek turned, looking up as the swift breeze caught the streamers of the prayer ribbons that flew from poles set around the top of Habaddon’s wall. Red and yellow, bright blue, and lively green, the leather banners coiled and snapped, and as the wind swept past them it carried away with it the prayers that had been stamped on them, each a tiny charm for the renewal of the Wild.

“The south wind blesses the way for us,” Kit said.

Marshal nodded. “Let us follow as swiftly as we may.”

~~~

They followed the track the men of Habaddon used to reach the Glycian River, which was the northern boundary of the Protected Lands that were under Jahallon’s watch. Across the Glycian was lost Samokea.

The men of Habaddon had long ago made it their duty to keep watch along the river, for the arowl were ever-present in Samokea and only by constant vigilance were they kept from passing into the Protected Lands. Even in the season of war enough men remained in Habaddon to patrol the riverbank—but it was not their task to keep watch for young warriors seeking to enter into Samokea. Why should it be? None had ever dared such a venture before.

Still, it seemed certain the patrols would object if they knew what the Samokeän boys intended. So after walking north for several hours the boys left the track and, turning east, they went on in stealth through the woods. The south wind befriended them in this, for it hissed through the forest, filling it with sound and the motion of swaying branches, disguising their passage with its play.

That night they camped without a fire, and by mid-morning on the following day they came upon the Glycian’s slow, winding waters. Bennek looked at the river with misgiving. “It’s so much wider here than in Fathalia.”

They were standing just within the cover of the trees, looking out across the gray water. The northern bank seemed but a reflection of the south. On both sides of the river the wind shook the trees and tossed their branches. White flecks skipped across the water.

“The river protects Habaddon,” Marshal said. “The arowl fear the water, and they are weighted by their weapons so they will only cross at dire need.”

From his pack Kit fetched a small hand ax. “We at least will have a raft to float our gear. Bennek, if you grow tired during our swim, you may cling to it and rest.”

“You are all kindness, my cousin, but your need might be greater. I have swum the Glycian before.”

Kit was taken aback by these words, for Bennek never spoke of that day when he had been but eight and had dived into the flooded river to save himself from the arowl pack that had already taken the life of his mother, and of Kit’s.

Marshal looked at his brother in concern. “You are remembering that day?”

Bennek was sure he did not deserve such coddling. “Why do you look at me so? I am not sad. I think on it sometimes, but that day is not like this. We are bound for Samokea! And the south wind prepares the way.”

Indeed, it blew hard all day as they gathered fallen logs. It roared through the forest, causing even the great trees to bend and groan. The rap of Kit’s ax as he smoothed and shaped the logs was lost in the tumult, while everywhere green leaves swirled through the air.

Late in the day they set to binding the logs together with cording, securing them with cross-braces laid in the notches Kit had made. To ensure their gear stayed well above the water, they added a second layer of large sticks. The last rays of sunset reached up the river, limning them in its glow as they tested the raft in a quiet eddy. “It’s beautiful,” Bennek said, standing in the water beside it. “The wood is dry, and floats well.”

“Climb on it,” Marshal urged. So Bennek did, and the raft sank only a little. Marshal was pleased. “We’ve done well, men. Let’s rest awhile now and eat. When full darkness has fallen, then we’ll cross.”

So they drew the raft out of the water again, though it required much effort.

For the second evening they made no fire, but ate of their dried rations in the gathering dark. “How close are the arowl, Bennek?” Kit asked after a time. “I’ve heard no howl all this day.”

“They are not far.” Bennek gazed into the twilight shadows across the river. He could see nothing there but the shapes of trees rising up to brush the early stars. Nor could he hear any howl or moan or other lamentation of the arowl, and as for their foul scent, that was swept away by the south wind. But though the beasts were hidden by darkness and distance, he still had means to find them.

It was Bennek’s gift that he could send his awareness wandering forth. Whenever he did this, it seemed to him he became a ghost, for he left his body behind him. The trance that let him enter the spirit-world came easily. While Kit and Marshal waited, he closed his eyes, and in a heartbeat he slipped away from himself—an unencumbered ghost gliding swiftly over the water, and on, into the trees.

Many seconds later he was back, shaking his head to clear it, for returning from the spirit-world left him dizzy and disoriented. “There’s a small pack of four, maybe half a mile beyond the river. They’ve been there much of the day, but they’re restless now, because another pack has bedded down not a mile to the east.”

This news drew a grim chuckle from Kit. “Our luck holds. Let them hunt one another! Then there will be only the fiercest, the cleverest left for us to take.”

Marshal stood up. Stars had taken over the sky. “It’s time.”

They stripped to bare skin, making bundles of their clothes. Bennek rubbed mud on his pendant so it wouldn’t glimmer in the starlight. Then they hauled the raft into the eddy of calm water. They secured to it their weapons, their clothes and their packs. The water was cold, but the wind on their wet skin was bone-chilling. “Quietly,” Marshal said, “but with all haste.”

They pushed the raft until the water became so deep they had no choice but to swim, clinging with cold fingers to the wood. The current took hold of them, sweeping them downriver. This they had foreseen, but they did not guess the wind would also seize the raft, turning it round and round so that if they kicked they would as likely send the raft back to the southern shore or hurry its passage down the river, as drive it on toward Samokea. But it was the will of the wind that they should cross. Slowly, slowly, its great breath drove them toward the northern bank. The black shadow of the trees loomed ever taller, and finally Marshal whispered, “We are across! There is mud beneath my feet. Push! Push to the shore!”

It took Bennek some time longer before he could touch bottom, but when he was able, he braced himself against the sucking mud and, using all his lean muscles, he helped Kit and Marshal to push the raft into the shallows.

They found no welcoming eddy. The current was unrelenting as they struggled to ground the raft, but finally they succeeded in hauling it out on a narrow mud beach. Water burbled past its corners, while a few steps away a dark embankment rose up higher than their heads. They hurried to untie their clothes and weapons, dressing quickly, and then strapping on their swords.

The horsemen of Habaddon carried heavier weapons, but hunting on foot, the boys preferred a light sword with a thin curved blade. This they carried in a back scabbard so as not to catch in brush or thick grass. The hilt stood up above the shoulder and the curve of the blade aided the speed of their draw.

Bennek shrugged a bow case over the same shoulder, with a quiver of arrows attached.

No words had yet been spoken.

Marshal tapped Bennek to get his attention. Then, palm down, he rotated his hand. Look around.

Bennek first flipped up the collar of his coat against the wind. Then he found a dry stone and, easing his weapons aside, he sat down. Closing his eyes, he slipped away once more into the night.

Marshal and Kit set to untying the cording that bound the raft together. This they kept, while the logs were left on the beach for the current to take at its whim.

After a few minutes, Bennek stirred. “It’s safe to speak. There are no arowl near us. We’ve come far down the river, and will have to go back some distance before we can hunt.”

As Bennek stood, Marshal handed him his pack. It was a simple sack with a single strap that looped across his chest. His spear was strapped to it, the shaft broken down into two parts and protected in a sheath. “We’re not going back,” Marshal told him. “There are arowl all up and down the river. If we leave corpses for them to find, it will be only a few hours before we become the hunted. We’ll go north instead. Quietly.”

Bennek was outraged. “We can’t leave these arowl unchallenged! Marshal, that’s not our way.”

“We’re in Samokea now,” Kit reminded him. “It’s a place and time for new strategies.”

“Come,” Marshal said. “I want to look about.”

They climbed the embankment, but saw only darkness beneath the wind-tossed trees.

Marshal signaled for them to be still. Seconds passed. Then he said, “Listen. Do you hear it? It’s the faintest of voices... yet not lost to the wind.”

“I do hear it,” Kit said. “Surely that’s an Inyomere?” He leaned forward, listening. Then he stopped up his ears. “I hear her still! She speaks to our hearts. She calls us to her.”

Bennek could hear nothing—not at first—not until he set aside his own disgruntled thoughts. Then he sensed it too—a prayer from the north, an appeal to the people of Samokea to come home, come home...

Even in his excitement, Bennek did not let his voice grow loud. “Marshal, that is the Snow Chanter! She lives! She calls to us!”

“Bennek, you are sure?”

“Yes.”

Marshal sighed, hardly able to believe it. “I don’t know how it could be. Tayeraisa the Snow Chanter has not been seen in the world since the death of Samoket. Yet my own heart says it is her.”

“As does mine,” Kit agreed and there was wonder in his voice. The Snow Chanter was the mother of Samokea. It was a blessing just to know her spirit still inhabited the Wild; it was an honor to be called to her service. In reverent tones he said, “Surely this is the reason the owlish Inyomere summoned us? That we might cross the river and hear the lament of our far mother? Men, we must go to her. We must find the Snow Chanter, for it seems to me she suffers. Surely she is calling us to help her in her need?”

They all agreed it must be so, and they set out at once. Beneath the trees there was only a little starlight to show the way, but as they went north the forest thinned and within an hour they left it behind, entering a rolling land of waist-high grass and scattered hills all aglimmer beneath a sky resplendent with stars.

Every mile or so Marshal would call a brief halt and Bennek would search the land around them for arowl. The beasts were not of the Wild and so they stood apart from it and were easy for him to perceive. Even behind hills, or among thickets, or crouched within the night’s shadows—if they were present at all—his gaze would be drawn by their dark illumination. But on that night Bennek discovered only a single pack, and that was at rest, far to the east.

He wondered if chance had emptied the land of arowl, or if it was the will of the Snow Chanter that the way north should be open to them. Once, she had been a power among the Inyomere. It was said that when summer storms raged around the Citadel, she would stand atop the walls and chant a summons, calling the snow down from the mountain peaks to cool the thunderous temper of Siddél. But on this night her voice was weak, and too soon it faded into silence.

The boys though, were not disheartened. Putting weariness aside, they pressed on until the gleam of dawn woke up the thickets and filled them with bird song. Then they climbed a rocky height from which they could look out on the surrounding land, and they made a camp.

All were tired, but they were pleased too. Kit said, “Surely we are as deep into Samokea as anyone has been since the fall of our Chieftain Édan?”

“And yet we have not slain a single arowl,” Bennek grumbled, as he made a bed for himself beneath a thicket, cushioned by fallen leaves. “It’s intolerable that we should pass through Samokea unchallenged.”

“Be patient,” Kit chided him. “Now that day is come, the arowl will stir. With luck they will find our trail.”

Marshal frowned. “Has it now become a sign of luck to be hunted by the arowl?”

“Truly, my cousin,” Kit answered him. “And we may soon find ourselves the luckiest of men.”

~~~

But it was not to be.

“Bleak news,” Kit said, when he wakened Bennek in late morning. “No arowl pack has yet come howling down our trail.”

Bennek stretched and groaned. “Do not think less of me, but I am pleased to hear it.” He crawled out from beneath the thicket where he had gone to sleep, brushing the leaf litter from his hair and shaking it from his blanket. “Kit, I have dreamed of snow and ice at the top of high mountains. My heart is filled with the wordless prayers of the Snow Chanter. She is trapped somewhere, and in dire need. I confess I am eager to go to her.”

Kit shook out his own blanket as he prepared to go back to sleep. Since he kept the middle watch his rest was always divided in two parts. “The Snow Chanter spoke to me too as I slept. The mountains she shows us must be the Tiyat-kel. That is her home, and she is an Inyomere who is bound to her place.”

Bennek nodded. On the maps in Jahallon’s library, the Tiyat-kel were a chain of high peaks that began in southern Samokea and marched north, beyond all knowledge. To the west of the mountains were the lost iron quarries of the Armory Peaks, and the ruins of the Citadel of the Snow Chanter. In the east, where they now wandered, there had been no settlements, unless it was a few family keeps that were not remembered.

Later, when Marshal woke, he described the same dreams. “Let’s go on, this very afternoon. It’s warm today, but autumn is nigh and the high peaks will soon be encumbered with snow. We have no time to waste.”

They set out in the pleasant sunshine of middle-afternoon. Now and then Bennek searched the land with his spirit sight, but the arowl were far away. They camped at dusk, setting out again at sunrise, and that day was much the same as the last.

On the third day though, gray clouds filled the sky, and their fortune changed. At mid-morning, Bennek sensed an arowl pack some miles to the south. “The beasts have found our trail. It’s a large pack, seventeen in number, and they run swiftly.”

Marshal was ever cautious and careful. It was his habit to study the lands they passed through, marking in his mind the distance to each hill, and how it might best be climbed, and where a defense might be made. So at once he said, “We’ll prepare our own hunt on that hill to the west. It’s not half a mile away.”

The hill had height enough to provide a good view of the land around, but it was not Marshal’s plan to climb to the stony summit. Instead he meant to make use of the steep slopes clothed in thickets and hardy trees. He positioned himself and Kit near the base, a bow-shot apart, but he sent Bennek higher. “There you’ll have an overview, and while you’re entranced you’ll be safe from the first assault.”

So Bennek climbed up through the thickets until he was halfway to the crown. From that height he could see a river glimmering in the east. He looked on it eagerly, knowing it must be the River Talahnon that ran east and then south out of the Tiyat-kel. It was their plan to meet that river and follow it for a time.

The first faint howls of the arowl pack reached him on the wind. He turned to look out over the grasslands to the south, and smiled in anticipation.

Chapter 3

Marshal crouched within the thickets, listening to the crying and howls of the pack as it drew steadily closer. Seventeen arowl. Never had they faced such numbers. In Fathalia, there had been nine beasts in the largest pack they had ever hunted. But he would not admit to doubt. They were well prepared.

The first arowl ambled around the shoulder of a grassy rise not an eighth of a mile away. Marshal saw it and sucked in a sharp breath. He’d heard stories of arowl like this, but never before had he seen one.

Arowl had many shapes and habits, but those that stood on two legs and possessed other features of the people were called were-beasts. Were-wolves were most common. Marshal had met several in Fathalia, though most of the arowl there went on four feet and weighed no more than a man. What he saw now was a towering were-bear, easily seven feet in height. Though it walked upright with a man’s square shoulders and rolling gait, it had the head of a beast, furred, with ears at the top of its skull and a long, scarred snout. But even at such a distance Marshal could see the whites of its eyes. Siddél had made his were-beasts with the eyes of the people because it disturbed the warriors who fought against them; and he had given them weapons like those the people used. This wear-bear carried a sword hanging from a belt at its gray and scabrous belly, and it clutched a bow in its thick hands. It was covered everywhere in scraggly, dull black fur, except on its belly, and on the lower part of its chest, where rib bones seemed poised to cut right through its foul skin. Hunger made a man weak, but hunger drove the arowl to madness. The fiercest beast was the one closest to death.

As Marshal watched, the were-bear raised its snout to sniff at the air. Then it uttered an eerie low wail that was answered almost at once by a second giant wear-bear as it came loping around the low hill.

Marshal shivered. The impending battle had just gotten far more dangerous.

The two beasts stood together, snarling and barking at one another just as if they were conversing on strategy, while around them the tall grass thrashed with the passage of other arowl that ran so low to the ground they could not be seen.

At their heels came the main pack: six agile, cat-like arowl, yammering as they bounded on long, thin legs. Were-wolves ran with them, but Marshal couldn’t get a good count because they would run upright only long enough to take a quick look above the grass, before dropping out of sight to run faster on four legs.

Seventeen arowl.

Marshal’s heart was hammering.

Arowl could be convinced to retreat, but they would always return to the hunt. Their only purpose and pleasure was to consume the flesh of the people. So the battle would not be over until all seventeen were slain.

Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, he readied his bow.

~~~

Hidden within a thicket, Bennek closed his eyes and summoned the trance that let him slip into the spirit world. His will became a vapor, streaming out to meet the ravening pack. As he curled around them and between them he felt their unquenchable fury and their endless hunger. Arowl would eat whatever poor creature they could seize, but they were driven always by a desperate craving for the flesh of the people.

The howling beasts went into a frenzy when they reached the foot of the hill and discovered the many scent trails Kit and Marshal had left for them. Their prey was near and none wanted to come late to the feast. In an eyeblink, the structure of the pack collapsed. The arowl scattered, each hunting only for itself.

Thwak!

A bow sounded from Marshal’s position, and a moment later, from Kit’s.

One of the huge were-bears fell with an arrow in its eye. A few steps away, a four-footed beast like a giant weasel staggered and collapsed. The arowl were not mindless. They understood the trajectory of an arrow. The pack re-formed in two parts as the beasts bore down on each archer.

Bennek used that moment to strike at them from within the spirit world. He breathed out a miasma of fear for the beasts to breathe in. The effect was stunning to see. The arowl were confounded. They lost their reason, and all sense of purpose. Some turned and fled into the grass, but most plunged into the thickets to hide themselves, while more arrows flew, bringing down one, and another, and another still. Bennek reached out again with his will and caused two of the cat-like beasts to fall upon one another.

To confound the arowl was a talent that had come to him from his Samokeän forebears. The Chieftain Édan was known to have set fear in the minds of whole hosts of beasts. Bennek contended with lesser numbers but he was well-practiced; it was only by his skill that he and Marshal and Kit had been able to hunt the arowl packs out of Fathalia when they were only three in number.

But now the panicked beasts were fleeing uphill. Bennek’s position was in peril. “Bennek!” Marshal shouted. “Wake up! Wake up now!” Bennek returned to himself, swaying for a moment as his head cleared. Then he seized his bow. Scrambling to his knees, he fitted an arrow to the string.

Something was crashing through the thickets below him. Something big. Looking down, he saw the second were-bear bounding up the slope with a sword in hand. Its face resembled the face of a bear, but corrupted, as if its skull had grown all wrong, so that the snout was shortened, the face flattened, and its forehead made heavy with knobs and swellings. Its ears were torn down to bloody scraps.

But its eyes were sharp and bright, with whites like the eyes of the people.

It caught sight of him crouched within the thicket. Its pace picked up as its snout furrowed in a hideous snarl, revealing fangs fully two inches long and gleaming white.

Bennek was in dread that Marshal or Kit would shoot it first. Still on his knees, he drew his bow and let the arrow fly. It struck the arowl between the eyes, but the beast kept coming. Bennek scrambled out of the thicket so he would not be hindered in his second shot. He fired another arrow as the wear-bear closed on him, its sword raised for a killing stroke. The arrow slammed into its left eye. The arowl’s head snapped back; it spun, and this time, it fell.

Before it hit the ground, Bennek had nocked another arrow. Something was coming at him through the thicket. Twigs crackled and dry leaves scattered in the air. He glimpsed a weasel-beast and fired. The arrow struck it in its black nose, biting deep, and the thing started screeching, tossing its head up and down as if it could shake the arrow loose until, without warning, it collapsed.

From the corner of his eye Bennek saw another of the same kind racing toward him up the slope. He turned, but before he could shoot, two arrows fired simultaneously from below brought it down.

Those arowl that had fled to the safety of the grass were yammering in fear, but on the hill, a sudden hush had fallen.

“Bennek!” Marshal called from somewhere below. “Your count?”

“Only two.” He consoled himself with the presence of the surviving arowl, waiting in the grass.

“I have four,” Kit called, “counting the one we felled together.”

“I have four not counting it,” Marshal said, “leaving seven still in the grass.”

Quickly, Bennek slipped his bow into its case. Then he pulled his spear from the sheath on the side of his pack, knowing that Marshal would next order a pursuit. It took but a moment to twist an extension onto the spear’s shaft.

He started up, but just then a howl of agony broke out behind him. He turned, astonished that an arowl had gained the high ground. Surprise became shock when he saw a were-wolf looming above him, only a little more than a stone’s throw away. Exactly like a man it looked in body—it was even clothed in a tunic and belt—but its head was fey wolf, with reddened eyes that rolled back in its skull as it howled again in dire pain, for it was on fire.

The wolf’s chest burned with a searing white flame. A smaller were-wolf—also on fire—leaped past it, running on all fours, howling and snapping and setting the hillside ablaze. Higher still on the slope, Bennek saw a black shape drop down from a gnarled persimmon tree, and scuttle away into a thicket.

All this he glimpsed in a moment.

Then the tall wolf, maddened with pain and panic, leaped downhill, tumbling and getting up again, igniting the thickets while the blazing fire spread to consume all its body. In its blind death agony it plunged straight toward Bennek.

He dropped the spear and seized his bow again. Frantically he nocked an arrow and shot at the wolf’s chest, aiming at the densest flame. The wolf toppled, senseless, a burning mass that came to rest just five paces from him.

“Hallo!” Kit called. “Bennek has learned the fire trick after all.”

“It wasn’t me!”

Kit was in the open, gazing up with his bow drawn.

“I glimpsed a thing lurking higher on the hillside,” Bennek told him.

Marshal came crashing up through the thickets, following the path made by the slain were-bear. His face was flushed and his spear ready. “Are you wounded?”

“No!”

“Then what did you see?”

“Two wolves ablaze, and a small black figure dropping from a tree... just there.” He pointed. “I couldn’t tell what it was, but it has an Inyomere’s magic.”

Marshal nodded. Then he looked downhill to check on the remaining arowl that had retreated to the grassland, but they were fleeing. Terror had won out over hunger and they were racing away toward the distant sheen of the River Talahnon. “Kit! Retrieve what arrows you can. Bennek and I will discover what lurks above.”

Kit grinned. “I’ll meet you at the top. Bennek, do not let the flames box you in!”

Bennek turned an uneasy gaze on the burning thickets.

“It’s spreading, but not quickly,” Marshal assured him. So they went first to retrieve arrows from the fallen arowl on the slope. When they had found all, Bennek paused to look once more at the fleeing arowl. He counted five survivors. Already, they were tiny with distance.

“Do you think they will find more of their kind?” Bennek wondered.

“Probably, but we’ll take them however many they are. Come. Let’s get around these flames before Kit beats us to the top of the hill.”

~~~

Kit caught up with them as they explored the ground around the ancient persimmon tree. Close to the trunk, Marshal found scuffed tracks that looked to have been made by small, thin-soled shoes. “It has to be one of the Inyomere,” he said in a low and cautious voice. “I have heard of no one among the people who can command such a fire spell. Not in our time.”

“Though our Chieftain Édan was said to have this skill,” Bennek mused.

“Look there!” Kit stood gazing at an outcropping of white rock on the hilltop. “I saw it in the rocks. Watching us, I expect.”

Marshal looked at Bennek. “Put your spear away. We must meet this Inyomere in peace, or not at all.”

Inyomere were everywhere in the Wild. Most were simple creatures, with a magic that was subtle, slow, and earthy, but some were powerful spirits—strong winds, thunder, deep winter snow—and these were easily offended. So Bennek stowed his spear and then they continued their climb. The fire followed, moving gradually up the hill.

They stopped just below the rocks. The Inyomere was hidden from their sight, but Marshal called to it anyway, “Greetings, Blessed One! We are three warriors come home to Samokea. We hunt the arowl but have no quarrel with any spirit save the monster Siddél. Will you let us pass?”

Many seconds slipped by. Bennek was sure the Inyomere would not show itself—but then a stir of motion drew his gaze. A figure, hooded and robed in black, stepped cautiously from behind a giant block of white stone. The wind caught the hem of its garment, sending it billowing over black leggings, but crisscrossed straps held the robe in place over its chest... or over her chest. She had a woman’s figure, and when she pushed her hood back she revealed a face like that of a woman of the people. Her coppery hair danced on the wind in long, loose strands, lashing around two small bundles that she carried, one on her back, and one at her side. She appeared lithe and young, but that meant nothing, for the Inyomere were as old as the Wild.

Marshal spoke again. “We thank you for striking down the two were-wolves that came behind us. The battle would have been close if they had lived to fight.”

“No thanks are needed, good sir.” Her words were polite, though there was a strange lilt to her speech, and something of wariness and doubt in her voice. “The arowl are the enemy of all the people.”

“And also of the Inyomere who have foresworn the blasphemy of Siddél,” Marshal answered.

She looked down at him with narrowed eyes. “Sir, do you know of any such?”

Marshal glanced urgently at Kit, but the only advice he received was a shrug. “I meant you, Blessed One.”

“Good sir, you mistake me! I am no Inyomere. I am one among the people.”

“But what you did to the arowl—surely that is an Inyomere’s magic?”

“Please. I am no Inyomere.”

“Yes, ma’am. Forgive me.”

“Sir, the fire is spreading.”

Indeed, the flames were crackling slowly through the thickets toward their position. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Perhaps you should come away.”

“May we approach you then?” Marshal asked eagerly. “We could speak further, and share some news of this land.”

She turned an anxious gaze toward the flames. “If you will, if it pleases you—just come away before the fire draws near.”

They scrambled around the shoulder of the hill while the woman made her way down the other side. She met them in the leafy shade of a chestnut tree just turning to its autumn foliage. The boys bowed to her and she returned this courtesy though there was caution in her eyes.

They had seen no woman like her before and were full of curiosity. In Habaddon the women tended to be tall, with a graceful strength. By contrast, she was slight and very thin, with hollow cheeks, and knobby bones showing at her wrists. Her hair was a shade of copper they had only ever seen in paintings hanging in Jahallon’s keep. Her black robe was well-made and looked to be new, yet it was much too large for her. Bennek wondered at this, for why would she make such a fine garment, yet not make it to fit? Of the two straps that crossed her chest, one held a rectangular bag like a warrior’s field kit. A blanket and flask were tied to the bag. The other strap held a long, thin bundle against her back. It was only a little larger than an arrow but it was wrapped in white cloth so Bennek could not tell what it contained.

He noticed something else then, something that could not be seen but only sensed: the presence of wickedness. He looked around the shady hollow, suspicious that a true Inyomere lurked somewhere near. Or perhaps it was an unkind ghost.

Marshal, though, appeared unconcerned—and this struck Bennek as peculiar, for usually his brother was the first to sense when an Inyomere was about—but at the moment his only concern was to make the introductions. “Greetings, ma’am. I’m Marshal of Clan Samoket. This is my brother Bennek, and our cousin, Kit.”

“Well met, good sirs. I’m Lanyon Kyramanthes.”

All were startled at this claim. Clan Kyramanthes was older by far than Clan Samoket. They were the people of the tents, moving from one place to another in their homeland of Ohtangia as it pleased them, and retreating to their fortresses only when arowl came ravaging through their lands. But long ago their clan had been lost to war and tragedy. In Habaddon it was said none survived in the world.

“How can you be of Kyramanthes?” Bennek wanted to know. “Surely that clan is long extinguished.”

Kit snorted, and Marshal gave him a pained look. Bennek scowled. It seemed a valid question to him. Marshal said, “Forgive him, Lanyon Kyramanthes. He is young.”

“So are you all! Are you yet seventeen, sir?”

“I am, and Kit as well. Bennek is fifteen this past summer.”

Bennek was still all too aware of the nearness of some wicked thing. He wanted to find it before it threatened them. So he edged away, looking in the grass and in the low branches of the tree while keeping half-an-eye on Lanyon.

“How is it you are in Samokea?” she asked Marshal. “Surely you are not alone here? Did you come with your fathers?”

“Our fathers are dead, Lanyon, slain in battle long ago. We are in Samokea on our own.”

Bennek, who had circled around to Lanyon’s side, turned to Marshal with an expectant look. Surely he would not keep their purpose secret? Marshal met his gaze, and then he nodded in silent assent. “We have been called here by Tayeraisa the Snow Chanter, blessed mother of Clan Samoket.”

Lanyon had an open face. She looked from Marshal to Bennek and back again, her astonishment and uncertainty plain to see. “Surely the Snow Chanter was lost to the Wild long ago?”

Kit answered her. “She has wakened.” He told of the owlish Inyomere that had chastised them. “So we set out for our homeland, and on the night we crossed the Glycian we heard the lamentation of the Snow Chanter. Our far mother still abides within the Wild, but she is trapped and helpless, and she summons us to aid her.”

Bennek saw that Lanyon was troubled by these words. “Lanyon, you must not fear the Snow Chanter. You asked before if we knew of any Inyomere who had forsworn the blasphemy of Siddél. Tayeraisa the Snow Chanter is one. She is the blessed mother of our clan and was always a friend of the people. That has not changed, and it will not change when we find her and release her from her plight.”

“I confess I am frightened and full of wonder too. Do you know where she is? Do you know what has become of her?”

Marshal spoke first. “Our dreams beckon us to the high country of the Tiyat-kel. The Snow Chanter is entrapped there, and it is our task to free her.”

Kit added, “We haven’t seen the way with certainty. Our far mother is weak, but she still calls to us, and we will find her.”

As they spoke, Bennek resumed his search, for he was determined to unravel the mystery of the unwholesome presence. But as he circled behind Lanyon he realized to his consternation that he had circled behind the wicked presence too.

Marshal was alerted by his perplexed look. “Bennek? Is there something that you sense?”

Lanyon had not realized he was behind her. She turned in sharp surprise.

“There is something wicked here,” Bennek said softly. “Some dreadful power. At first I thought it was an Inyomere. But now I think it is something else.”

Marshal took a step backward. His hand rose to his shoulder, where he grasped the hilt of his sword. Kit glanced anxiously around the hollow. But Bennek looked into Lanyon’s eyes and he saw there the stirrings of panic. “Please do not fear us. We are honorable men.”

“I do not question your honor.”

“Help me to understand this evil. It is not you... yet it is of you.”

She bit her lip. Struggling with indecision, she looked again at Marshal and Kit, but in the end she spoke to Bennek. “You sense the talisman I carry. It’s a wicked thing.”

“I don’t understand. What is a talisman?”

“It’s an object bound to a spell.”

Bennek had never heard of such a thing, but then he knew almost nothing of spells and sorcery. “If it’s wicked, why don’t you throw it away?”

This suggestion horrified her. “Oh no. It was made for a special purpose—not by me; I wish it had never been made!—but it was left to me and I will use it.”

“But what is its purpose?”

She hesitated, but Kit was eager to know as well. He said, “You don’t need to fear us, Lanyon Kyramanthes, and it may be we can help you, after we’ve rescued the Snow Chanter. We are good fighters, but more than that, we survive in the Wild because Bennek has a bit of the magic of the Inyomere in him. In the hunt he has a knack of confusing the minds of the arowl and this gives us great advantage.” Bennek was stunned by this compliment, but Kit took no notice. “Won’t you tell us why you’ve come to Samokea?”

Marshal urged her too, “Yes, please speak.”

She nodded, wide-eyed, as if astonished at her own willingness to trust them. “I will tell you. I’m only passing through this land as quickly as I may. I was asleep on this hill when your hunt commenced. I’ve taken to walking all night when the arowl are less wakeful. I’m on my way to the far north to slay the Inyomere Siddél.”

Bennek was awestruck. “Marshal! Why didn’t we think to do this?”

There was wonderment on his brother’s face. “I fear we are too timid.”

“You doubt me,” Lanyon said. “I don’t blame you.”

“Lanyon Kyramanthes, we do not,” Marshal insisted. “It’s just that... well, Siddél is the greatest—no, the most terrible Inyomere—”

Long ago the people had lived in the southern ocean, among the blessed islands of Hahví, and they were beloved of the Inyomere of that sweet place. But disaster befell them and they were driven into the sea. When their ships finally fetched up on the shore of the Wild they encountered Inyomere of another kind, and Siddél was the worst among them.

Kit spoke in warm anger. “Siddél created the blasphemy of the arowl! He gave them life, and released them in their madness on the Wild!”

Bennek echoed his outrage. “Siddél destroyed Samokea! He murdered our Chieftain Édan, and sent the arowl ravening across Samokea so that our people were forced to flee, and only by the resolve of Jahallon-the-Undying did any live to reach Habaddon. Siddél is our greatest enemy! We will aid you in his destruction, Lanyon, after we have found the Snow Chanter.”

All swiftly agreed to this, but Kit still wanted to know, “How is such a thing to be done? Siddél is no petty Inyomere. He is the storm. He’s not bound to any place, but wanders all the Wild. Slaying him is like slaying a great thunderstorm. Is such a thing possible? Even for you, Lanyon? You have an Inyomere’s magic, but Siddél—”

“It is possible.” She touched one of the two straps that crisscrossed her chest. Not the one that supported her field kit, but the other, that held a bundle—long and narrow and wrapped in white cloth—against her back. “Here is the talisman I carry. It’s an arrow and it was made with the singular purpose of slaying Siddél—to pierce not just his heart, but his soul, and separate him from this world. It is my task to find his home in the north, the Storm Lair where he dwells when he is not at work terrorizing the Wild. There I will lie in wait for him, and kill him when he comes.”

Marshal had a faraway look.

Kit sighed in sweet contentment.

Bennek grinned. “I think we have not met by chance.”

“May we accompany you, then?” Kit asked.

Hope shone in her clear face, and she smiled with quiet joy. “Yes. Let us fare together, as fate allows.”

Chapter 4

They walked north through a country of low, rocky hills, and as before, they stopped now and then so that Bennek could seek for arowl. Lanyon was fascinated by his skill and he in turn was astonished that she—with the power to set the heart of an arowl on fire—could not do this simple thing. She turned her hands palm-up. “It’s in your nature so it seems easy to you, but I think it is a rare gift.”

Though she had been afoot all night she showed no weariness, walking at a fast clip to keep up with the boys’ longer strides. The hem of her night-black robe trailed in the grass, its dense weave sliding over sticks and brambles without catching. A flush of exertion highlighted her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and warm, and Bennek was not unhappy to find himself the subject of her gaze as they walked.

“I am admiring your pendant,” she confessed with a smile. “There’s a smith in the Citadel of the Snow Chanter—” She caught herself as she realized her mistake. A frown of confusion replaced her smile. “Forgive me, I’m rambling. There was a smith who worked in just this style. I only wondered if this might be her work... but I know she crossed over long ago.”

Bennek touched the pendant—a blazing sun rising into a shallow triangle of twining vines. “My far mother wore this as she fled the Citadel.”

“Ah, it is old then... and you have brought it back to Samokea. Bennek, your far mother would be proud.”

He grinned. He could not help himself.

~~~

The gray clouds that had begun the day grew heavier as the hours passed until their soft bellies brushed the hilltops and the early afternoon was cast into gloom. Yet the mood of the boys remained bright, for in Lanyon Kyramanthes they had found something strange and marvelous.

Still, Marshal felt obliged to remind them of their peril. “Don’t forget we have an unfinished battle. Just because we hope to put off our hunt until the evening, that doesn’t mean the arowl won’t try to find us sooner. Don’t allow yourselves to be distracted.”

Kit glanced at Lanyon and laughed. “Your warning comes too late, I think.”

But Lanyon was puzzled. “Marshal, do you still intend to hunt those arowl?”

“Indeed. We won’t leave off until the task is done.”

“But the survivors fled south, while we’re going north. You’ll never catch them this way.”

“They will come after us,” Marshal assured her. “They ran because they were panicked, but even now the lure of our flesh is working on them. Sometime today they will circle around, hoping to take us by surprise, but once again, we’ll have a surprise for them.”

Lanyon cast an uneasy glance behind them. “And why should you wait until evening? Surely it’s harder to hunt them in the dark?”

“No, it’s easier,” Bennek insisted. “As you have said, the night is their time to sleep and they become sluggish, so it’s less work to run them down—though they see better than we do. There is a danger from their bows.”

“But they can’t shoot if they’re running,” Kit amended. “So we make sure to keep pushing them.”

Bennek flashed a bloodthirsty grin. “Eventually one will stumble.” He reached to his shoulder and seized the hilt of his sword, sweeping it out of its scabbard and making as if to hack at the ground. “They don’t get up again.”

~~~

Bennek puzzled over the mystery of her, and the more he thought on it, the more peculiarities he found.

There was her sorcery. Bennek was Samokeän and had his own gifts, yet he had never heard of anyone who could slay the arowl with only a thought, except for the Chieftain Édan.

There was the evil talisman she carried. Even now its wicked presence was like a shadow lurking at the edge of his mind.

There was her lineage. Kyramanthes was the most ancient clan to descend from the children of Jahallon-the-Undying, but in Habaddon that bloodline was said to have died out over a hundred years ago, in the days when Édan was still chieftain in Samokea.

Next there were her garments, which looked as if they had been made for the death rites of a beloved chieftain, and not for an expedition in Samokea. Her shoes were slight, without hard soles, like the house slippers worn by some of the wise women of Habaddon.

And then there was the strange lilt of her speech.

And her size—she seemed slight and fragile when measured against the women of Samokea and Habaddon.

Finally—but certainly not least of all these things—there was her bold venture through the arowl-ravaged lands of Samokea, where her path by chance had joined that of the only three men to venture so far beyond the Glycian River in years upon troubled years.

~~~

In mid-afternoon they climbed to the top of a ridge where they could rest with a good view of the surrounding land. Lanyon shared out dried venison from her field kit, while Marshal told her of their family, and of the summer his father and Kit’s had not come home. “They had gone crusading with Jahallon in the spring. Bennek was born in the early summer. He was only two days in the world when my mother’s brother came to tell us that both men had fallen in battle.”

Lanyon looked to Bennek, who sat on the side, honing one of his knives. “So he never saw you.”

“We were never in the world together. He was already dead when I was born.”

She nodded her sympathy. “And your mothers? What became of them?”

Marshal said, “They stayed on at our family keep. My uncle begged them to come away and live with him in his own keep closer to Habaddon, but they refused.”

“They were strong,” Kit said. “They knew how to defend our keep. They taught us to fight.”

Marshal nodded his agreement. “And they taught us the history of Samokea, and how to read and write... but finally they fell to the arowl.”

“They were consumed by the arowl,” Bennek amended, each stroke of the knife precise against the whetstone.

“Bennek saw it,” Marshal acknowledged. “He was eight, and they had taken him hunting. They were following a family of forest buffalo... but an arowl pack had lately come into Fathalia, and it was stalking the same prey.”

Lanyon turned a troubled gaze on Bennek. “How did you escape?”

His hands held to their steady rhythm. “They told me to run to the Glycian River and throw myself in. So I did it. The river was a torrent. It took me a day and a night to walk home.”

Marshal watched his brother closely. Then he shook his head. “Bennek will never admit to being sad.”

“I never am sad. What is there to be sad about? My mother and father are together, and someday I’ll be with them. In the meantime, I kill arowl.”

“Is that when you learned to confound the arowl?” Lanyon asked him. “When you were fleeing to the river?”

Bennek finally stopped his grinding, looking up at her in surprise.

“Is this true?” Marshal asked him curiously. “You have never said.”

“It’s not something I think on.” He returned to his work.

Lanyon told them, “My story is not so different from yours, though I was eleven when my father died. We lived in Ohtangia then, in a fort in the high mountains. He too had gone with Jahallon to campaign against the arowl, and all my brothers went with him. None of them came back.”

“I am sorry for your family,” Bennek said. Setting the knife aside, he went to work polishing its scabbard. “Do any of Clan Kyramanthes still live in Ohtangia?”

“No, I am the last. So you were nearly right that Kyramanthes is extinguished.”

“How is it the talents of the Inyomere are so strong in you?” Kit wondered. “Could you be Samokeän, at least in part?”

She shrugged. “The descendants of Samoket and Kyramanthes have mingled many times.”

Once again Bennek stopped in his work, but now he looked at her in delight. “Then you are our far cousin! You have Samokeän blood, and are a descendant of the Snow Chanter too.”

She smiled politely and made a little bow. “I offer greetings to my far cousins.”

Bennek was thoughtful. “So you have the blood of the Snow Chanter, but you are also Kyramanthes, and that is the oldest clan, descendant of Jahallon’s first child... and the curse of the Inyomere Siddél is on Jahallon-the-Undying and from him it passed in greatest force to Kyramanthes, and through that bloodline some great talent has come to you... and will descend through you.” His mood shifted to one of speculation. “You are not married yet?”

“Bennek!” Marshal protested.

But Lanyon pressed a hand against her mouth and laughed. “That is blood lust.”

“So you are not married?”

“You ask very many questions.”

“Then you are married,” he said with disappointment.

“I have been married. I am married no longer.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we offer our condolences,” Marshal said.

For a moment, Bennek looked shame-faced. “Truly, I am sorry for your loss... but I am wondering too—is this fire spell something you can teach?”

“It was taught to me.”

“I would learn it.”

She nodded. “When there is time, I’ll teach you its name.”

~~~

They came upon the River Talahnon in late afternoon. Its course had turned northwest so they followed it, walking on a low bluff above a floodplain filled with rustling cane grass. They saw many birds and a few rabbits, and once they saw a small wildcat, but there were no signs of larger creatures. The horses and deer, the antelope, the hardy cattle and the buffalo that had once grazed the green fields of Samokea were gone. The arowl had run unopposed in that land since the fall of Édan, hunting to extinction the vast herds that once lived there.

The bluff came to an end, and they found themselves walking along the edge of the cane, with the great stalks swaying and rustling above their heads. As the afternoon waned the air grew heavy and cold, and from it a mist was born. It came out of the cane and up from the ground in drifts and tendrils that blended together, enveloping them. Fine droplets of water gathered on their hair and eye lashes. They couldn’t see far so they took care to step softly, listening for any sound more mysterious than the call of birds or the rustle of rats.

Bennek had still not discovered any arowl and this seemed strange to him. He asked to stop. And while Marshal and Kit stood watch, he sent his spirit-self wandering farther than he had before. He searched among the hills and along the riverbanks. But he couldn’t find arowl anywhere within his reach and the effort left him dizzy, as if he had leaned too far over a fortress wall and nearly tumbled off.

He was still feeling muzzy-headed when they set out again. It didn’t help that the mist blurred the landscape and lent his ears a ghostly imagination, so that he heard all around him a sourceless whispering, a faint, frantic warning, repeating, repeating, over and over again.

Lanyon stopped. She gazed at the cane, her eyes wide with fright. “Do any of you hear her? Can you hear the mist speaking?”

“Is she real?” Bennek asked in surprise.

Kit was following behind him. “I can hear her. She is a morbid Inyomere, though I don’t think she means us harm.”

Marshal nodded. “Let her do no worse than this and we won’t complain.”

Lanyon shook her head. “We must not disregard her. I will not do so again.”

“But what does she say?” Kit wanted to know. “I can’t understand her.”

Indeed, the Inyomere spoke so softly her words blended together so that it was maddening to hear her murmurous voice and yet hear no meaning.

But Bennek heard it differently. In a puzzled voice he told them, “He is coming. That’s what she says. She repeats it over and over. He is coming. He is coming. He is coming.”

Lanyon stared at him with wide eyes.

Then from deep in the cane there came a sudden loud rustle.

Marshal swept his sword from its scabbard. “Bennek?”

“It is not arowl.”

Kit hauled out his bow and nocked an arrow. “A tiger, then? They will most often dwell beside the water.”

Bennek slipped his spear from its scabbard and twisted on the extension. “I will look.” He advanced on the cane. Marshal stepped up beside him—and at once they heard the sound of a large beast crashing away toward the river.

Bennek started after it. He wanted to know what it was. But Lanyon was suddenly beside him, holding onto his arm, speaking nonsense. “Please stop! Don’t kill him.”

“What?”

She pushed past, plunging ahead along a path of broken cane that marked the creature’s retreat.

What madness had come over her? Was it her purpose to come up against a tiger unarmed? He darted after her. He didn’t dare call out—it was not their way to imitate the hue and cry of the arowl—but as he ran to catch her he begged her silently to stop, stop, stop!

And it seemed she heard him. She turned around with a look of astonishment; and he caught her. He seized her arm as she had seized his. “Do not go on!” he commanded in a fierce whisper.

She didn’t speak. She made no sound. Yet very clearly he heard her voice inside his head asking, Who are you?

Marshal slipped past them and Lanyon turned, reaching out as if to stop him. But just then there was a splash and Marshal froze. He stared ahead, but nothing could be seen except the cane and the mist. “It has gone into the river.” He turned a mistrustful gaze on Lanyon. “Did you see what it was?”

She too stared ahead, at nothing. “I thought I saw someone. It was what the Inyomere said. ‘He is coming.’ It made me think someone was there.”

Kit came up behind them. In his fingers he held a few strands of downy gray hair. “I think it was a wolf.”

Lanyon looked as if she had a different opinion, but all she said was, “I am sorry to have caused you trouble.”

“The Inyomere has made us all nervous,” Marshal told her gently.

“I wish she would relent,” Kit said. Then, with an irreverent grin, he called out to the mist, “Blessed One, we understand he is still coming, whoever he might be.”

~~~

They went on. Bennek walked with Lanyon. He wanted to ask what it meant that he had heard her unspoken voice; he wanted her to say she had heard his; but he didn’t want Marshal or Kit to know it, so he kept his silence.

The day grew old, but the mist did not recede and neither did the Inyomere’s tedious, whispered warning. It wore on their nerves so that they all were badly startled when a distant baying arose from beyond the river. Bennek insisted it was not arowl. “Perhaps it’s a wild dog, though I don’t know.”

“And where are the arowl?” Kit wondered. “They’ve tarried so long I expect there’s some mischief in it.”

Evening was not far off when the cane gave way to a rocky shoreline. Before long, they came on a steep bluff looming out of the mist. It was clothed in scattered groves of small, hardy trees and sweet-smelling shrubs. A narrow beach divided it from the water. Marshal said, “We can make a defense here, if we need to. At the least we should be able to find some sheltered place to spend the night.”

So they climbed the bluff and as they got higher the mist thinned. Soon they had climbed above it. From the top they looked out on the mist-shrouded line of the river, and the dark plains beyond. Bats fluttered in the twilight and crickets sang an evening chorus. The river murmured in its bed. And far off, faint, there only when they held their breath, was the howl and yammering of a distant pack.

“Ah, there they are,” Kit said softly. “They’re warming up. Working up their rage. They will be silent soon, when they begin the hunt.”

Bennek closed his eyes and slipped into the spirit-world, but he could not find them, they were that far, and again he was left with the dizzying feeling that he had pitched himself over a precipice. Still, he did not doubt that they would come. They were a corruption made to prey upon the people, forever driven by a fierce desire for the blood of men and women. They could not resist it.

Chapter 5

Darkness gathered as they prepared a camp within a sandy hollow sheltered beneath a rock overhang and surrounded by a hedge of low brush. Bennek gathered wood for a fire, but he didn’t light it. Lanyon went down alone to the stream. She was gone for more than half an hour. Bennek was ready to go look for her when she returned with a net of knotted sedges holding a fine catch of fish. This she hung from a gnarled tree while the boys counted up their arrows. Then they huddled together in silence beneath the sheltering rock.

The mist had left every leaf and stone and blade of grass heavy with dew. The fitful patter of falling droplets filled the night. An hour passed. They chewed on the last of the dried venison Lanyon had carried. Then Kit stretched out on the strip of dry ground at the back of the hollow, and slept. Most of another hour went by. The mist dissipated, and the stars shone out brightly. Lanyon began a soft chant.

At once, Kit was awake, and like Marshal and Bennek, he listened.

The words were indistinct: faint nonsense syllables slurred together in a rhythm that repeated over and over. Soon the boys sensed a warm presence closing around them. “What spell is this?” Marshal whispered.

Lanyon didn’t answer; her chant did not falter as minute after minute crept past.

Then Bennek spoke out of the shadows. “The arowl have found our trail. They’re still some miles south, but they move swiftly, and in stealth.” His gear rustled as he stood up and stepped into the open. “They have found companions. There are nine now. All are on this side of the river, but they do not repeat their mistake of this morning. They are spread out, and I won’t be able to confound them all.”

“Then we’ll stay together,” Marshal said.

Kit drew a sharp breath. “What strangeness has descended on us?” He too slipped out from beneath the sheltering stone. “The stars are bright and I have always seen well in the night, yet my eyes play tricks on me. I can see the thickets and the rocks, but you Bennek I scarcely can see, though... I think... is this your shape here in the fullness of the starlight?” He reached out to assure himself he had indeed found his cousin, and Bennek startled at his unexpected touch.

“Kit, you are but a glimmer!”

Marshal half-rose. “Both of you can scarcely be seen. Lanyon, speak to us. Is this your spell?”

They turned to her, and alone among them she seemed substantial: a black shadow huddled within the gray shadows that filled the hollow. She still chanted, though her voice had gone hoarse. Bennek had long-since memorized her repeated verse, and he mouthed the last syllables as she neared the end. She did not begin again.

“Lanyon?” Marshal asked.

A soft sigh escaped her. “I have put an enchantment on all of you.” She sounded very tired. “It’s a spell of concealment called the hunter’s veil. Despite their keen vision in the dark, it will be difficult for the arowl to see you, just as it’s hard for you to see them at night. And the sounds you make will be muffled in their ears.”

Kit laughed. “This should be short work.”

“If they don’t flee,” Marshal cautioned. “We must slay them all tonight, or they will find even more of their kind to come after us.”

“It’s not all good,” Lanyon said as she joined them in the starlight. “I don’t know how to affect their animal senses, so they will still be able to track you by scent.”

“We’ll be cautious,” Marshal assured her.

She walked with them a little way, until she could look out on the river, where not a tendril of mist remained. Starlight glittered on the water and in the dew that clung to the trees and thickets, but despite this generous illumination the three young warriors could hardly be seen unless they moved, and even then the eye slipped away from the uncertainty of their shapes. “It’s a bright night,” Kit whispered. “Lanyon, did you also send the clouds away?”

“Kit, you must not speak thus!” She was scandalized. “This is a gift of the Inyomere of the mist.”

“She that howled at us all this afternoon?”

“She is sad I think, remembering what is past. But this night she gives her blessing.”

This drew from Kit a soft chuckle. “Ah, where would we be without the kindness of the Inyomere? For though they despise us, they hate the arowl even more.”

“Let’s go,” Bennek said impatiently, and taking his own advice, he set off first into the glittering night.

~~~

Marshal beckoned them together beside the river, where they appeared as a trio of ghostly shapes. In a whisper he warned them again, “Do not be distracted by this woman or made over-confident by her gifts. There is great mystery about her, but I don’t think she has contested much with the arowl before this day. In any case, her sorcery has drained her. If you are in a tight spot, you must save yourself.”

“Well then,” Kit whispered, “Bennek is doomed.”

“Doomed to rescue you, no doubt.”

“Oh good,” Marshal said. “We are as always, then.”

At first he led them southeast along the river, but after a quarter mile he turned away from the water, and entered a place of scattered boulders, many twice his own height, that must have rolled off the bluff in the beginning of the world. Between the boulders grew many short trees with knobby trunks and slender branches that held crowns of tiny leaves up to the stars. Amid the lacy shadows the three of them all but disappeared. Marshal had to sign three times before Kit and Bennek perceived his gesture to halt. After that he resorted to whispering. Pulling Bennek close, he spoke into his ear—“Find them”—in words hardly louder than a breath.

Bennek nodded. Crouching with his back to a boulder, he closed his eyes and sent his sight questing outward—but a moment later he stood up again. The arowl had come much sooner than he’d expected. Pointing back to the river, he held up four fingers, waving his hand to be sure that Marshal could see.

Marshal whispered, “The other five?”

Bennek waved vaguely to the south, Not close enough to worry us yet.

Marshal wanted a better defensive position. Nudging Bennek and Kit to follow, he set out again, and soon came to a largish mound covered in tumbled boulders gleaming white in the starlight. To the south was a patch of open ground, while to the east and west more trees of humble stature marched up to the mound’s foot. They climbed the slope and hid themselves among the rocks. Kit set an arrow to his bowstring.

Marshal turned to Bennek, and gave his whispered instruction. “Wait for the arowl. When they draw near, confound them.”

Bennek did not want to do it. He was always confounded himself for several seconds after working his will on the arowl, and such a delay would let Kit and Marshal dominate the count. If the pack was large, he would make no complaint, but there were not so many tonight. “Marshal, we don’t need to confound them. They are only four—and all on four feet—there are no were-beasts among them!”

Marshal wasn’t swayed. “Do as I ask and do not argue.” So, with a disgruntled expression safely hidden by the darkness and the hunter’s veil, Bennek settled himself against the ground, closed his eyes, and with his spirit sight he went seeking the four arowl.

They were scattered. Three hung back, waiting on a call to hunt. The fourth pursued their scent trail. The shape of this tracker was low and sinuous, like a weasel, but many times larger. Bennek was a ghost, gliding invisibly beside it as it passed nimbly through the brush. Only when it came within easy range of Kit’s arrow did he affect it. Then he filled up its mind with dread and it sat back and howled.

The fell-quiet of the night was undone. An answering hue and cry came from the three hidden arowl, even as Kit loosed his arrow, silencing the dazed tracker. Bennek let his awareness slide until he met the leader of the oncoming three. It was another like the tracker, and it raced straight toward the rocks where they were hidden. He confounded it just as it came into sight and Kit brought it down too, though a second arrow was needed to finish it. Bennek countered the next arowl as it reached the foot of the mound. The stunned beast turned to retreat, so Marshal set after it with his sword. He ran it down and slew it, then turned and caught the fourth beast on his sword as it leaped at him from the shelter of the trees.

So Kit and Marshal were two and two while Bennek’s kills still numbered zero. He tried not to dwell on the injustice of it, for now the dreadful howls of more hunting arowl sounded from the south. Some rang loudly in the night, but more could be heard in the far distance. Bennek ventured out among them—but they had learned well the lesson of the morning and were widely scattered. He hunted them with his spirit, trying to count their number, but they moved swiftly, and before he could find them all, an arrow whizzed into the rocks.

Kit shook him hard. “Wake up! The main pack is here. It’s a real battle now.”

More arrows hissed from out of the trees to the south. “This is not the main pack,” Bennek warned. “These are the five I counted before, but a second pack comes perhaps a mile behind them.”

“And how many are they?”

“Six more at least, but I couldn’t finish a count.”

Marshal had taken shelter in the boulders at the foot of the mound. Kit called the news down to him. “Fan out then,” Marshal told them. “We’ll finish the five, before we start the next round.”

This order was more to Bennek’s liking and he obeyed at once, leaving the ridge and slipping into the shadows of the trees. The night was bright, but the shadows were deep. He darted from one patch of darkness to the next in a staggered run toward the shelter of another tumble of boulders. He had almost made it when a foul scent reached him, carried by a friendly breeze. He ducked down into dense shadow as two arowl appeared from around the rocks. One was a small were-beast of uncertain lineage. The other was a great wolf of unnatural size. Bennek was astonished, for he had never seen such a creature before. The wolf’s four legs were as long as his own and he could not have gotten his arms around its head. Its coat was long and shaggy, reeking beyond the foulest arowl Bennek had ever encountered. The only feature of the people it possessed was its eyes, but it didn’t seem to see him. It huffed once, twice, its hot breath steaming in the night as it picked up his scent. This dire wolf had certainly not been with the pack they had hunted in the morning.

Bennek hefted his spear and charged.

His motion revealed him. The wolf bared its great teeth and bounded to meet him. The small were-beast readied an arrow, but it could not shoot with the wolf in its line of fire. Bennek dropped into a crouch, and as the great beast leaped on him he cast his spear into its chest. Then he jumped aside. The dire wolf crashed past him, and he dropped behind a tree to shield himself from the arrows of the were-beast.

The wolf fell to the ground but it did not stay down. With a great heave of its shoulders it surged again to its feet. It turned to face him, with the long shaft of Bennek’s spear protruding from its chest.

The spear was Bennek’s favorite weapon. He wanted it back unbroken. So he charged the wolf again, this time seizing the shaft with both hands. The beast looked startled, as if he had appeared out of nowhere. Bennek used the moment to yank the spear out of its chest. Blood flooded from the wound and the wolf staggered backward, its great jaws snapping blindly at air.

Shifting his grip, Bennek stepped in close and thrust up, driving the spear through the back of the wolf’s jaw and into its brain. Blood gushed on him as he yanked it out again. He had to jump aside to avoid being crushed as the great wolf collapsed to the ground.

~~~

Marshal had intended to follow Bennek into the trees, but his position was forward on the mound, and every movement he made was met with a well-placed arrow. He answered the assault with arrows of his own, but it was a guessing game, for the arowl archers had not yet shown themselves. After a minute Kit called down to him, “We have no time for this. Make ready, and I’ll flush them out for you.”

Kit slipped away from the ridge, circling around to the west. Silently, he entered the grove where the arowl archers were hidden. He heard the thwak of their bows, and then another sound: a rustling of fallen leaves behind him. He spun around.

Just steps away, glimmering gray in the starlight, was a huge dog, standing as tall as his elbow. It had a broad head, and a long, powerful muzzle. Its tail wagged slowly as it watched him.

Not for a moment did Kit mistake such a handsome creature for an arowl. He knew it for a true dog, of the kind that ran with Jahallon’s armies.

He started to speak to it, but just then a horrific growling-howl erupted from the west, beyond the ridge. The dog ducked out of sight, and Kit remembered that Bennek had gone that way alone. “Ben-nek!” he bellowed, “you bet-ter be a-wake!” He plunged amid the trees, still screaming and bellowing in his most fearsome voice.

The tactic worked. A small arowl with a bow started up from the shadows. Kit charged it, but it was faster, skipping out of the trees and into the open, where Marshal dropped it with a single arrow.

~~~

When the wolf fell, Bennek turned to look for the second arowl. He didn’t have to look far. The were-beast had come up behind him. It had an arrow nocked and by its manner it was clear the beast knew he was somewhere about, yet it did not see him. It blinked frantically and its aim shifted, now closer, now farther, defeated by the hunter’s veil.

Bennek did not hesitate. He launched his spear at its chest and dropped to the ground. An arrow whizzed past him as the arowl cried out once, and fell.

~~~

There had been at least two archers among the trees. Marshal waited five seconds, then ten, for another arowl to flee from Kit’s assault, but he knew the plan had failed when Kit appeared at the edge of the grove. Lanyon’s spell still made his shape an uncertain glimmer, but the enchantment of the hunter’s veil was dissipating, and Marshal could mark him easily—as could the arowl that lay in wait among the branches above his head.

A flash of motion among the leaves was their only warning. “Above you!” Marshal shouted, but the arowl had already dropped.

Still, his shout gave Kit a moment to prepare. He met the arowl with his sword, slicing it across its belly. Its onrushing weight knocked him to the ground. He rolled away from it, and then he turned to hammer at its head with his sword. Suddenly Marshal was standing over him. “Are you hurt?”

“Drowned in arowl blood. How’s the baby?”

Just then Bennek bellowed. “My count is two!” With a glimmer of motion, he stepped into the open. “One is a very great arowl that I didn’t see this morning.”

Kit called back to him, “Have a care! We felled only two ourselves, leaving one still lurking—”

He broke off as a frightful snarling erupted from deep within the trees. There came a panicked screech, and then silence, save for the fearful howling of the second pack. Marshal and Kit traded a startled look. Then Kit remembered, “I saw a dog of the kind that goes to war with the men of Habaddon. I think it must have been the ‘wolf’ we heard within the cane.”

“I just hope it doesn’t hunt us too.” Then to Bennek he called, “We need to know what’s out there.”

“The pack is nigh!” Bennek objected. “There isn’t time.”

“We will cover you! Bennek, we need to know.”

So Bennek retreated again into the trees, where he crouched in the deepest shadows, trying to quiet his heart.

The howling of the approaching pack was blood-chilling. “Listen to it,” Kit said, as he and Marshal retrieved arrows from the arowl corpses. “Bennek is right. There are likely more than six—but this time they howl in one chorus.”

Marshal nodded. “Instinct has beaten strategy, and once again they’re running as a pack. Come. Let’s return to the position in the rocks. Now, I think—” For the pack was almost upon them. “Bennek!” Marshal shouted. “Come join us.”

Bennek didn’t answer.

“He’s entranced,” Kit said.

“Ben-nek!”

“I’ll get him.”

“No. Get into the rocks. Bring down as many as you can with your bow. I’ll wake him.”

So Kit returned to the mound, while Marshal took off for the trees where Bennek had disappeared. “Bennek! Bennek, wake up. Answer me.”

Even as he called to Bennek, the pack charged up through the grove. Marshal saw them through the trees. There were seven, four of them were-beasts on two feet, and he feared Kit would soon be overwhelmed. But suddenly, the tone of the howls changed. The arowl looked confused, uncertain, in that way Marshal had seen many times before. “Good Bennek,” he said softly, and he crept back to the edge of the trees.

Kit shot first, then Marshal a moment after him. Four arowl fell in the first few seconds and the remaining three—all of them were-beasts—fled howling toward the river. Bennek turned up, looking furious. “You’ve chased them off, haven’t you?”

“We brought down four!” Kit said in their defense.

“Only because I stunned them for you!”

Marshal was already pulling arrows from the corpses. “Are there more, Bennek?”

“No. Just those three—and at least one of them is going to be mine!” He hefted his spear and set off after them, with Marshal and Kit close on his heels.

The night remained brilliant, the air quite still. The remaining arowl were easy to follow because they were panicked and cried out instinctively for aid. It gave their position away, and brought assurance to the boys that none had stayed behind in ambush.

Bennek ran hard, determined to catch them before they crossed the river, but they surprised him with a sudden turn north... as if they had caught a new scent. At the same time, the tone of their howls changed, growing bolder and bloodthirsty. They were on the hunt again. Marshal was first to say it, “They’ve discovered Lanyon!”

“We must protect her,” Bennek panted. “She’s weary. She may not be able to defend herself.”

They cut north toward the bluff, reaching it at the same time as the three arowl. The enchantment that had hidden them had worn away so they were easy to see as they plunged out of the trees: Bennek with his spear, and Kit and Marshal with swords drawn.

They met the arowl at the foot of the bluff. Screams and howls filled the night, and the jarring clang of sword on sword. Kit finished his beast in two strokes. Marshal’s target turned and fled back to the water so that he had to run it down. But Bennek’s had some skill. It was a black were-wolf, its face screwed up in a ferocious snarl as it parried his spear thrusts. Starlight sparkled on its long white teeth.

Kit came up, dancing in and out with his sword, striking at its side to harry it. In desperation, it threw itself at Bennek.

It was the move he’d waited for. He dropped to one knee, bracing the end of his spear against the ground, ready to catch the wolf on the blade.

But in that moment Lanyon screamed in horror— “No!” —and the heart of the wolf caught fire. Bennek speared it anyway, heaving it up and over his head before hurling it to the ground. The flame was weak—nothing like the fire that had taken the two arowl in the morning—but it had erupted in the heart, killing the beast at once, so that it was a dead thing he skewered.

He yanked his spear out of the corpse and glared upslope, where Lanyon stood, wide-eyed and breathing hard. “I do not need help in the killing of arowl!”

Her mouth opened and closed before she spoke in a small voice. “I am sorry. It frightened me.”

“You must think better of me.”

“I will. I do.”

Bennek was hardly mollified. He stomped off to see how Marshal had dispatched his mark, leaving Kit smirking behind him.

Chapter 6

It was well past midnight when they dragged the corpses of the three dead arowl to the water and dumped them in the river. They stripped off their gear and cleaned it of blood. Then they washed themselves in the icy water. Bennek had to unbraid his hair, and scrub his scalp with sand to get out the dried blood of the giant wolf. He was last to return to the hollow. There he found a merry fire going, with neatly filleted fish roasting on steaming green sticks. “I forgot about food,” he whispered, feeling suddenly hollow and weak.

“Fortunately Lanyon did not,” Kit said. “You’ll have to forgive her for killing your arowl.”

“I’m sorry I was angry.”

She lifted a stick from the fire and handed it to him with a somber expression. “I’m sorry I was not brave.”

As they described the hunt to her, Kit remembered the dog he had seen. “I think it’s curious about us. Certainly it showed no hostility toward me, though its feelings for the arowl were less kind.”

Marshal laughed. “That is true! Never have I been rewarded with such a fear-filled screech from any arowl I have cornered.”

“It’s strange to find it here,” Kit mused as he shoved a green stick—now empty of fish—into the coals, and helped himself to another. “I wonder if its kind has lived wild in Samokea since the fall of Édan?”

Lanyon turned away from the firelight. “I think it has lost its master.” In her voice there was a mournful note. “If so, then it may finally come to us.”

“Lanyon,” Bennek wondered, “have you seen this dog before?”

She shrugged. “Jahallon’s scouts will often take such a dog with them, for they are trained to hunt the arowl and to give warning at their approach.”

“Much like Bennek,” Kit said, earning a guffaw from Marshal, but also a stinging bit of gravel against the side of his head.

The fish were all eaten, so Lanyon built up the fire, while Bennek described the great wolf he had battled. “I never saw anything like it before.”

“It is Siddél’s art to conjure monsters!” Lanyon said bitterly.

“He is skilled at it,” Kit agreed. “The beasts he sends to devour us grow fiercer each year—and still we are not defeated.”

“May it always be so.” Lanyon arose and brought more wood to the fire. “I’ll keep watch tonight, for all of you must be weary from the hunt.”

Bennek and Kit did not need further persuasion. They found their blankets and were quickly asleep. Marshal, though, sat watching the fire. Lanyon waited, but when he did not speak, she crouched by his side. “You are wondering if you can trust me.”

“We only met today, and you are full of mystery.”

“I haven’t spoken all the secrets of my life, but please believe that we are friends, and that I would never bring harm to you, or any of the people.”

“There is something I must know. It’s been on my mind all day.”

She drew back a little, but she nodded.

“Did you have a baby?”

She flinched. Several seconds passed, and he thought she would not answer, but finally she said, “I had two. My son was one and a half years in the world. My daughter was new born. They were slain, and my husband too when Siddél attacked our household. How did you know?”

“There’s a faint scent of milk on your clothes.”

“Still? And yet in my memory it was long ago.” She sighed. “Marshal, do not feel sorry for me. Like Bennek, I am not sad. My babies have crossed over, and they are safe now from the evil of Siddél, and in good time I will be with them.”

He nodded. “That is the comfort we all must keep.”

“Will you let me watch?”

“Only if you promise to wake me in two hours.”

“I promise. Now rest, so you will be ready should the arowl come again.”

~~~

But the night was quiet. Lanyon woke Marshal as promised then went to sleep herself, waking again at dawn. Bennek was on watch, so she took him with her to check a line of rabbit traps. “We won’t go far,” she promised. “You’ll know if anything ventures near camp.”

“When did you have time to put out traps?”

“Last night, after you set off on the hunt.”

The traps were neat cords made of braided sedges. She had placed twelve, but the first one, and then the second turned up empty. “Lanyon?” Bennek asked.

“Yes?”

“Yesterday by the river...”

“Oh.”

“You asked me, ‘Who are you?’ I heard your voice, though you didn’t speak.”

“You surprised me, that’s all. I know who you are. You are Bennek of Samokea, far son of the Snow Chanter, and many talents have come down to you.”

The third trap too was empty, but Bennek hardly noticed. “Bennek of Samokea,” he mused. “That was never my name... before.”

Lanyon looked at him in confusion. “How then are you called?”

“Bennek of Clan Samoket.”

“Oh. I am sorry. I mis-remembered it.”

He shrugged. “All my people are named thus, since we live in Samokea no more. But you are from Ohtangia. It must be that our custom is not known there.”

“It must be.”

They went on, only to discover that the fourth rabbit trap also was empty, and the fifth and the sixth. Lanyon’s disappointment was keen. Bennek tried to hide his own, for he felt half-starved and was sure there was very little left in their packs to eat.

“Bennek?”

“Yes?”

“You live in Samokea now.”

He stopped and looked at her, not understanding.

She had a playful smile. “So I am right, and your true name is Bennek of Samokea.” And she set off again, seeking the seventh trap which was empty, and also the eighth.

But Bennek was pleased. “Lanyon, you are right, and from now on I will be known as Bennek of Samokea.”

She smiled at him. Then turning around again she said in surprise, “Oh look! We have caught a rabbit after all!”

~~~

Their luck had changed, and three of the last four traps had rabbits. Lanyon dispatched each quickly with a twist of the neck. Marshal carried a cooking pot, so she decided to cut them up and boil them. That was faster than roasting. When they returned to camp she sent Bennek to fetch water, and by the time the water was hot she had the rabbits neatly cubed, and was at work on the skins, scraping them clean.

Marshal was still asleep, but Kit had wakened. He took Bennek with him down to the battle ground where they hunted for lost arrows. They were at it three-quarters of an hour until finally Kit said, “Enough. We have found all but two, and if we don’t return soon, Marshal shall have all the rabbit for himself.”

“Come,” Bennek said. “I would show you the wolf before we go.”

They had to brave a choking stench to view the beast. It lay on its belly, head lolled on one side, just as it had fallen. Flies crawled in its eyes and across its blackened tongue. Daylight showed its pelt to be a dark, dirty gray, highlighted at each shoulder by a diagonal slash of the thin, white fur that grows back over scars. It was so large that even lying down, its great shoulders were level with Kit’s chest.

He stared at it in amazement. He walked around it twice before he found his voice. “Oh my cousin, I confess I thought you exaggerated last night, but I was wrong.” He bowed deeply from the waist, and the tribute was not lessened by the grin on his face. “You have bested us, at least in this round.”

Bennek flushed with pleasure.

“But what’s this?” Covering his nose against the stench, Kit stepped closer. Gingerly, he brushed back the dense fur around the wolf’s neck. “It’s a collar!”

Bennek went to look and it was just as Kit said: the beast’s neck was encircled by a tight-fitting iron collar, with a forged loop where a chain could be attached. Kit tugged at it to test its strength. Then he beckoned to Bennek, and they hurried away to fresher air.

Kit was scowling. “There’s a mystery here. This is not a were-beast, so why does it wear a collar? Who would dare to put one on such a dire wolf?”

Bennek shrugged. “Perhaps Siddél compelled the were-beasts to do it. Maybe these wolves must be chained to stop them destroying one another.”

Kit looked doubtful, but for once he didn’t argue.

~~~

Lanyon stretched the rabbit skins on small frames of greenwood and these she carried when they set out again, so that the skins could dry in the sunlight. It was her plan to work them into snug shoes, for the shoes she wore would not serve her among the snow and ice of the peaks.

They made a late start, and went slowly, for all were fatigued. They followed the River Talahnon, and at first they passed through a rocky land, but then they were once again in a rolling plain of tall grass. Now and then Bennek would seek the arowl, but on that day there were none to be found.

As the afternoon wound down, Kit kept his bow ready and bagged three hen pheasants. They made camp while it was still light, in a grove of trees beside the river. Strawberries grew beneath the thickets, and Lanyon spent the last of the daylight gathering all she could find. They ate well, and in the morning they were rested.

They continued along the river, until a tributary flowing from the west cut across their path. This they decided to follow, for they were impatient to see the mountains. But by afternoon the tributary had lost its way, giving itself up to aimless wandering, so they crossed it, and struck out to the northwest.

The land was beautiful yet desolate. Wind hissed through the tall grass, rolling it into shimmering waves that darkened then brightened again as cloud shadows swept past. Pheasants called to one another, and chittering flocks of tiny finches whirled up from the grass at their approach. But of rabbits, foxes, and other such small creatures of the ground they saw no sign. Neither were there any trees, not even along the banks of the tiny creeks they discovered snaking through the grass. Kit didn’t bother to hunt, since there was no wood to make a fire.

They made camp at twilight by treading out a circle in the tall grass near the bank of a stream. The wind had gone with the sun, leaving behind a silence tempered only by the murmuring voice of the stream as it spoke to itself in a glassy whisper. “This is a gloomy place,” Bennek said. “It feels hollow and ill-tempered, like an abandoned keep.”

“I feel it too,” Marshal said. “I’ve been plagued by a sense of foreboding ever since the light began to fade. We are not wanted here.”

They ate in silence, a dreary meal of dried nuts that Marshal had carried all the way from Habaddon. A chill breeze sighed through the grass, setting the seed heads nodding in graceful silhouette against the starry sky.

“Am I alone?” Kit said suddenly. “Can none of you feel the anger here? Can you not hear it in the clatter of the water? In the hiss of the wind?”

“We can all feel it,” Marshal said. “There is an Inyomere here.”

Bennek wondered, “Might it summon the arowl?”

“Maybe. Maybe.”

As the darkness deepened, tiny sparks appeared, igniting in the seed heads of the grass, gleaming less than a second, and then vanishing again, like stars winking in and out of existence.

Bennek lay wrapped in his blanket, watching the sparks appear and disappear. In the ground he could hear a faint rhythmic rumbling.

“Can you hear them?” Marshal whispered. “That is the beat of horses’ hooves.”

Lanyon spoke from out of the darkness. “It’s a memory you’re hearing. The herds of Samokea used to be vast and beautiful, but they are long gone, prey to the arowl.”

Marshal pressed his ear closer to the ground. “I can hear the stallions cry out! I can hear the mares neigh.”

“Can you also hear the Inyomere calling?” Bennek asked. “Calling to the horses?”

“I cannot hear him,” Kit said. “I can only feel his venom.” He had arisen, to watch nervously the sea of grass, where the sparks were growing brighter.

“Put your ear to the ground and you will hear him. It’s a sad sound, though. Heartbreaking. He cries out, ‘Where have you gone?’”

Kit would not listen, but for the others the Inyomere’s voice stirred images of the beautiful horses of Samokea, long ago hunted from existence by the ravaging arowl. “I will listen no more!” Lanyon said suddenly. She stood up, to walk about like Kit. “This Inyomere would overwhelm us with his despair.”

Kit came to stand beside her. “They hate us.” Around them the sparks blazed in the grass, staying longer before winking out. “Why do the Inyomere hate us? Why? It’s the arowl that have destroyed the horses, and it was the Inyomere who made the arowl!”

“Siddél made them,” Lanyon said. “The other Inyomere did not do this wicked thing.”

“The others allowed him to do it. The only purpose of the arowl is to hunt us. The Inyomere do not believe we belong in the Wild.”

“They are not like the people,” Lanyon conceded. “They are the storms and the seasons, the streams and the glades. They don’t understand justice. It’s only the Wild they love.”

Bennek too, stood up, to stare pensively into the night.

The sparks had turned into tiny flames that charred the tips of the grass before burning out. They twinkled far out on the plain and across the river. Lanyon said, “Sometimes I dream of the blessed islands of Hahví. I don’t know if these dreams are true visions or just the echo of stories I’ve heard, but they are sweet dreams. How I wish I had lived and died then, in the time before the storm.”

“So do we all,” Kit said reverently.

Hahví was the people’s ancestral home. How they first came to those islands, or how long their ancestors dwelled in that kindly place, no history remembered, but all stories of Hahví were sweet. The Inyomere of the islands had doted on them, teaching them the crafts it was proper for the people to know: writing, so that they might speak to one another from afar and across time, metalwork and architecture, and sea craft, so the people could sail between their islands and know all their kin.

It was all long ago. A great storm had broken the world, and carried away the Inyomere of Hahví. Without them, the islands and the sea all around became sickly and forlorn. The people had no choice but to flee in their ships. Jahallon had been a youth then. He’d been among the first to set foot on the shore of the Wild.

“Do you think the good Inyomere of those days will ever come back for us?” Bennek wondered.

Lanyon said, “I do not think that could ever be. We are not the same people. We’ve been stained by this evil we’ve fought for so long. I don’t think the Inyomere of the islands would cherish us as they once did. Perhaps they wouldn’t know us at all.”

Suddenly the little flames—that before had been so transitory—seemed unwilling to die away. The seed heads burned and it was as if ten thousand candles had been lit at once in the plain around them. Sparks cascaded to the ground, and in seconds the grass was alight with fitful orange flames.

At first no one could believe it. Siddél was an Inyomere of great power and open malice, but the petty Inyomere of the plains, the groves, the streams, the valleys and the hills... their malice had always been subtle.

Bennek was first to realize their peril. “Into the stream!” he shouted, as the fire found its voice and began to roar. “Grab the gear!”

Kit seized the packs as flames leaped above their heads. Sudden whirlwinds sent pillars of smoke swirling over the faces of the stars. Then Lanyon cried out, “Where is Marshal?”

The grass they had trodden flat was black and smoking; if Marshal was there, he could not be seen against the glare of orange flame. Bennek bent double, groping in the murk for his brother. “Marshal! Marshal, where have you gone?” A moment later he stumbled against him. “Marshal, awake! Wake up!” But Marshal was entranced by the Inyomere’s spell and he didn’t stir.

Kit abandoned the packs. “Come Bennek! We’ll drag him to the water.”

It was too late. The tall flames had swept around them, cutting them off from the stream, confining them in a ring of appalling heat. “We can’t get out!” Bennek’s face was shining with sweat.

Across the water, a yelping set in and when Bennek stood up to look he saw a huge dog cutting in mad dashes between the spreading flames, and behind the dog, the figure of a man, racing past the fires, toward the stream. Yet the man didn’t seem to truly exist, for he flickered, appearing and disappearing as he ran, his existence as transient and relentless as a licking flame. In the glaring light Bennek could make out no details of his features, but what did it matter? What else could such a fantastical creature be but the Inyomere who had fired the grass, now caught in the storm of his own anger?

Bennek turned away, and with Kit he lifted Marshal from the smoking ground.

Lanyon stood at the center of their shrinking circle, her face lifted to the starry sky. In a voice not her own she spoke a single word— “Grathrak!”—that somehow carried the ponderous weight of storm clouds.

All across the plain the flames collapsed as if a giant hand had snuffed them to smoldering ash.

Chapter 7

Bennek could see nothing. His eyes—accustomed to the light of the fire—were blind in a darkness made worse by the choking smoke. But he didn’t need sight to feel Marshal suddenly wake to life. He set his brother’s feet on the ground and helped him to stand. Kit asked in a tense voice, “Marshal? Are you all right?”

Marshal shifted. “Where’s—?” Suddenly he lunged into the darkness. “Lanyon.”

Bennek heard a soft grunt; the rustle of cloth. “What’s happened?” he whispered.

“She’s collapsed. I’ve caught her.” A breeze stirred, carrying some of the smoke away, so Marshal’s shape was revealed, a pocket of darker darkness, huddled close to the ground. “She’s breathing.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Kit asked.

“I don’t know.”

Bennek wanted to go to her, but he groped for his bow instead. They were not out of trouble yet. The Inyomere might have some other wickedness to turn against them. Setting an arrow to his bowstring, he stepped toward the stream.

The smoke was clearing, the stars were shining brighter, and Bennek’s eyes were adjusting to the night. He found his target almost at once. The creature was standing in the stream, its shape silhouetted against the starlight that glittered in the water. It had the appearance of a man bent over, hands propped against knees, and shoulders heaving as it gasped for air. But when Bennek blinked, the spirit vanished... until after a few pounding heartbeats he spied it again. Now it was standing upright, looking at him—but even as he returned its gaze, its existence wavered. It faded, until the glitter of starlight on water could be seen through its nebulous shape. Was it wearing leather armor? Was there a silver tint to its hair? In truth the creature didn’t look much like an Inyomere, that is, when it looked like anything at all.

The dog didn’t suffer its master’s affliction of transience. Standing in mid-stream, chest-deep in the sparkling water, it looked as solid as any natural creature of the Wild.

“Stand fast, sir!” Bennek warned, drawing his bow. At the sound of his voice the dog lunged toward him, bounding through the shallow water. “Sir! Calm your dog!”

“Kina, stay! Stay down!” And by speaking, the creature anchored itself in the world, becoming a solid shadow. Surely this was a man?

The great hound obeyed her master’s command, stopping just short of the bank, but she trembled, thumping her tail against the water and cavorting in place as if overtaken by an intense joy. “Kina is eager to greet the sorceress,” the man said. “Lanyon spoiled her and won her affection.”

“You know Lanyon?”

“Jahallon left her in my care”—he coughed hard amid a fresh swirl of smoke—“but I have failed in that.”

“You know Jahallon?”

“Son, please put aside your bow before that arrow takes flight on its own.”

Marshal stepped up beside him. “Bennek, we do not war against the people.”

Bennek lowered his bow. “I apologize, sir. I was startled and fearful, and I didn’t know if you were a man of the people, or the Inyomere who ignited this fire.”

The stranger’s gravelly voice held a hint of amusement. “In all my long years I have never been mistaken for an Inyomere, but then I have also never seen the fields set fire to themselves. No apology is necessary, sir. Indeed, you have my praise for your alert defense. May I cross the stream?”

“Come over, sir,” Marshal said. “The air is better on this side.”

~~~

His name was Pantheren. His silver hair was cropped close to his head in the manner common to the men of Habaddon, and even in the darkness it was easy to see his face was lined with many years. He still had an element of transience about him. If he stayed still for several seconds he would fade, becoming solid again only when he moved or spoke, but there was no time to question him on it while Lanyon lay like one who has been mortally wounded. Kit held her in his lap, cradling her head in the crook of his arm. “She still breathes,” he said in a fearful voice, “but she won’t awaken.”

Pantheren knelt beside her and Kina the hound came to stand next to him, her head lowered as she gazed mournfully on her friend. Kina was a beautiful dog, with wide, dark eyes and soft gray fur just visible in the night. Her body was well-balanced, lean and tall.

“Tell me what happened,” Pantheren said.

Kit shook his head. “I can’t. All I know is the fire went out.”

Marshal was crouched beside him. “I was entranced by the spell of the Inyomere. I was aware of nothing until she fell.”

“I saw it,” Bennek said. The others looked up at him. “She spoke a word, in a voice that was low and harsh, like something wicked. Then the flames collapsed. Marshal awoke and she fell.”

Pantheren sighed and stood again. “It’s not without cost that we toy with the arts of the Inyomere.”

“She had no choice in it. The flames were upon us.”

“Yet it has proven too much for her.”

“She’ll come back to us.” Bennek dampened a cloth in the clean water of the stream. Returning to Lanyon, he used it to wipe her face. She had to come back. He thought about how it felt when he hunted with his spirit sight and reached out farther than he should... as if he might go on forever, falling away from all he knew. “I will look for her.”

Marshal gripped his shoulder. “Bennek, wait—” But he closed his eyes anyway and slipped into the spirit-world, hunting her as he hunted the arowl. His ghost-self glided outward, across the grass, past the stream... but the night was empty. There were no arowl, or anything else he could discern. He felt unbalanced, on the verge of falling away into darkness, when she called to him. Bennek! It was like that time by the river. Her voice spoke within his mind, but now it was sharp with fear.

He answered her with an intensity of thought: Where are you? I can’t see you anywhere.

Turn, she pleaded. Turn and see me.

He lurched toward her voice. The direction was not north or south, east or west, up or down. It was a turn within—one step that plunged him along a tight, coiled path—and his spirit slipped beneath the world.

There he found her, so close she was almost inside him, as if her shape and his could stand in the same place. Take me back, she pleaded. I’ve lost my way.

He reached for her with ghostly arms, drawing her into his center.

She was not alone in that place. He saw everywhere the faint, luminous fogs of coy spirits at play, while across the dark fields he saw Marshal, Kit, and Pantheren, and they were gilded with radiant life so that the night could not hide them from his vision.

These things he only glimpsed before his attention fixed on a dreadful dark spirit aboil in some deeper place. He feared it at once, but it tantalized him too. It stirred his desire. It tempted him to reach out and possess it, for in possession his fear would surely turn inside out and he would become that which was fearful and dark, and the fear he felt would belong to others.

But Lanyon whispered to him, It is an evil thing.

Through her words he remembered himself and his purpose. Hold to me, Lanyon. I’ll take you back. He turned into himself, and a moment later he opened his eyes.

Smoke and the stink of ashes surrounded him as he crouched beside Lanyon. She still rested in Kit’s arms, but now starlight glittered in her open eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked her anxiously.

Her voice was weak with relief. “You’ve been there before?”

“No—what was that place?”

“It was the Mere.”

Then he was all astonishment, for the Mere was the soul of the world. It wound within the ground, and within the leaf. It surrounded the sky, and filled the stones of the mountains. It roared within the ocean and flowed with the waters of rushing streams. It was the lake in which all things floated, and the source from which the Inyomere drew their power. They would sometimes call it the Expanse, but among the people it was more often named the Fourth Way.

It was the place where prayers were sent.

With Kit’s assistance, Lanyon sat up. Only then did she notice Pantheren and at once she recoiled. “War Father! When the mist spoke her warning, I knew it was you she meant. Sir, I will not go to Habaddon!”

“I have given up all hope of persuading you to that, Lanyon Kyramanthes.”

“Then why have you followed me? You could have returned safely to Jahallon.”

“Jahallon made it my duty to look after you. Not until I met you have I ever failed in my duty. Do you still have the talisman?”

Lanyon touched the strap that held the bundled arrow. “I have it.”

Bennek asked, “Is that the dark presence I saw within the Mere?”

She nodded. “It is an evil thing.”

Pantheren turned to Marshal. “Though we didn’t meet, I remember you and your kin from Habaddon. There was much discussion of the Samokeän boys among the captains. We could see you were battle-worthy and any of us would have been pleased to accept your oath, but Jahallon wouldn’t allow it.”

This stunned them, for though the men of Habaddon had been friendly, they had offered no encouragement. “They mistrusted our experience,” Marshal said, “and advised us to train another year.”

“Is that what you were told? Jahallon’s words were somewhat different. He said you should have another season in the world. I thought it only a whim of his, but Jahallon has foresight, and now I must wonder if he knew there was another path for you.”

“It was not Jahallon’s will that summoned us north,” Bennek said. “We were called by the Snow Chanter. She awaits us.”

“Indeed?”

“We dream of her every night,” Marshal said as he recovered his pack from the darkness. “Though this night I think we should forego sleep and move on, for the smoke is choking and I cannot sleep amid the ash.”

All agreed. They gathered their packs and weapons, and filled their water skins. Kina walked among them, a great, menacing shape in the darkness. Bennek watched her sidelong. His father had kept a war dog—so he had been told—but like his father it had not returned from battle. “Kina.” He whispered her name as she passed near him and she turned her head. He couldn’t see her expression in the darkness, but when he raised a tentative hand she came to snuffle his scent. Moving with great caution, he touched her head—her fur was so much softer than he had imagined!—but he snatched his hand back when a shadow loomed beside him.

“Don’t be nervous,” Lanyon said softly.

“I don’t know much about dogs.”

“Stroke her like this.” She demonstrated. “Or scratch her behind her ears.” Bennek tried it, and Kina wagged her tail with pleasure.

Lanyon turned to look for Pantheren. “War Father, where is your sweet mare?”

Pantheren answered from the darkness. “I set her free, with her nose pointed to Habaddon. Perhaps she will find her way back. If I had brought her farther into Samokea her warm flesh would have drawn the arowl within hours.”

~~~

They set out again across the open plains. Kina the hound went first, for the night was nothing to her. She led them around stones, animal burrows and dry streambeds. Near midnight they found another stream and here Marshal called a halt. Bennek trampled down a circle of grass and dropped his pack. “It might be the same place as before—except I am even hungrier.”

“We’ll find something to eat tomorrow,” Marshal told him.

“Hunting is easy,” Kit said. “But how can we cook in this treeless land?”

Pantheren rummaged in his pack, pulling out a package wrapped in gauze. “I cannot conjure a fire for you, but I can ease your stomachs tonight. When Lanyon abandoned me, she left me by far the greatest share of food.”

There was flatbread in the gauze, and he had dried fruit and smoked fish too. The Samokeän boys accepted it all gratefully, and their spirits rose as they ate. Bennek had finished, and he was making a place to lie down, when he heard a rustle in the grass behind him. He spun around, heart pounding, and drew his sword, but it was only Kina, returning from the grass with a pleased look on her face. “She hunts her own food,” Pantheren said with a flash of white teeth that must have been a grin.

Bennek put his sword away. Kina stopped to sniff his hands and he smiled, wondering how she’d guessed he had a bit of bread saved for her. She took the gift with great dignity. Then she went to lie down near Pantheren.

Marshal spoke. “War Father, you are a hard man to see. You fade from sight altogether whenever you’re still. It’s like the hunter’s veil Lanyon laid on us, but it endures.”

“It is indeed Lanyon’s doing. A gift from her when she abandoned me. She wrapped me in a veiling spell and sent me into an unnatural sleep. Only by the stars do I know that two nights passed.” He held out his hands. At first they were illumined by starlight, but then they faded from sight. “The enchantment clings.”

“Lanyon,” Bennek asked, “is this the same spell of concealment you put on us when we hunted the arowl?”

She had been silent since they left the burned fields. Now she answered quietly, “That was less powerful, for there was less time.”

Marshal asked, “Was it you, sir, in the cane beside the River Talahnon?”

“Yes, that was me. I wanted to understand Lanyon’s intentions before I showed myself to her again.”

“I told you my intentions,” she said, an edge to her voice. “I told you of the arrow. I told you where I was bound—”

“But you did not tell these things to Jahallon! You let him believe we would go to Habaddon.”

“He would have stopped me if he knew!”

“He is your far father!”

“He does not see all things!”

The Samokeän boys were astonished at the sudden heat of this argument. Marshal spoke in a gentle voice, determined to diffuse it. “We too left Habaddon in deceit. We let our friends believe we were returning to Fathalia. Sometimes those who love us protect us too much.”

Kit looked at Pantheren and cocked his head. “Do you think it a mad task to seek to slay Siddél?”

“Without hope of success,” Pantheren assured him.

“Neither is there hope in this endless war,” Lanyon countered. “The arowl cannot be defeated while Siddél lives to conjure ever more of their kind.”

Marshal told Pantheren, “We’ve promised Lanyon our aid after we find the Snow Chanter. We’ll go with her to the Storm Lair, and there we’ll lie in wait for Siddél.”

“It’s a worthy task,” Kit added, “if even Jahallon’s captain would refuse it.”

Pantheren chuckled in the darkness. “There was talk in Habaddon that you Samokeän boys were somewhat addled by the hardship of your lives, but blessed too, for you still owned them.”

A shocked silence descended on their circle. Kit started to rise.

“Stay son,” Pantheren said with humor in his voice. “Even if true, there is no insult in it. It only means you are brave and lucky, and—perhaps—fated. I know my fate has come down on me.” He turned to Lanyon. “I will not fight you anymore, Lanyon Kyramanthes. If this is the task you have chosen, then I’ll help you in it as I can.”

“Though you don’t believe in it?”

“Not so many days ago I would not have believed in you. For now, I’ll put belief aside.”

~~~

It was ever Bennek’s duty to keep the last watch before sunrise. He stood away from the camp, leaning on his spear, facing into the wind that hissed through the tall grass. Sometimes on watch he would census the stars, his lips moving as he recited their names in a soundless chant. Other times he would listen to the rustles and calls of little animals engaged in their nightly tasks, and by morning he would know their kind, and where their burrows and nests must be.

On that night though, his thoughts turned on his fleeting visit to the Mere. The memory preoccupied him. He longed to know if he could find his way back there again. He thought he could.

All was silent. Nothing was about. No harm could come if he spent some part of his watch in that way peculiar to him. So, still leaning on his spear, he closed his eyes and allowed his ghost-self to drift free. He did not seek the arowl. There were none around anywhere that night. Instead he sought to remember the sound of Lanyon’s voice, and the direction from which it had come. It had been a direction he had never imagined before, neither up or down, forward or back, left or right... but a Fourth Way. He turned toward the memory, and once again he slipped beneath the world.

The night was still the night, filled with stars. The land remained itself, with the grass swaying upon it. Yet this was only the surface of things. Beneath—within—was a heaving, frothing, flowing vastness of love and indifference—the Mere—where brooding forces dwelled, enduring a slow decay. Bennek felt himself diminished in the face of it. With a shudder he turned away, feeling safe only on the margin.

He found his vision sharpened. Gazing across the land, he was at once aware of Kit and Marshal and Pantheren. They were asleep, hidden by darkness and by the swaying grass, yet he saw them. They gleamed in his awareness, not as light is usually perceived, but with a luminous gravity irresistible to his gaze. Never before in his forays through the spirit-world had he been so aware of the presence of people.

He thought he sensed another being too, but its gravity was shifting and fickle. He knew it was not the talisman, for that wicked presence was a separate thing. This other was coy, like a gleam of light in the corner of his eye retreating from view even as he turned to see it, leaving him uncertain if it was there at all.

After a few minutes, he set aside this puzzle, and gliding forth, he entered the camp. There he discovered Kina the hound asleep near her master. It surprised him that her presence was faint, and hard to perceive.

Then he noticed what he had overlooked before: Lanyon was not there. He saw only trammeled grass where she’d been sleeping. With his spirit sight he searched for her on the plain, but he could not find her. It was as if she’d vanished from the world.

Fear took him, and he returned to himself, racing the few steps back to camp. Pantheren and Marshal heard him coming. They were awake with weapons in hand when he lunged into the circle of flattened grass. “Where is Lanyon?” he cried, as Kit too abandoned sleep. “She has—”

But there she was, sitting up in the starlight. “Bennek?”

He looked at her in confusion. “Where were you?”

“Here! Just as you see me now.”

“But I couldn’t see you at all! You were gone.”

“No. I’ve gone nowhere. It’s just that it’s dark. I’m wearing black, and—”

“I was within the Mere. My sight was untroubled by darkness. I could see each stem of bent grass, but Lanyon, you were nowhere to be found.”

“Oh.” She glanced at Pantheren, who was laying down his sword. “It would be dangerous for me if I let myself be seen within the Mere.”

“You mean you’ve hidden yourself?” The possibility astonished him, and it made him a little angry too, to think that the clarity of the Mere was an illusion, and that he had been misled.

Lanyon nodded. “It’s a skill of the Inyomere, to weave a glamour that will lead the eye away.”

“And you know how to do it... so you are hidden from Siddél?”

“I hope I am hidden from all who see within the Mere.”

“Truly, there must be many among the Inyomere who would stop you if they knew what you intend.”

“I just wish I could hide the talisman too, but I don’t know how to do that.”

Bennek wondered if he had been foolish. But how could he have known? He knew so little.

He apologized for waking everyone. Then he returned to his watch.

He did not wander again that night.

Chapter 8

The day dawned clear and cool, though the air warmed quickly once the sun rose. They set out early and by noon they had covered many miles. They still saw no trees, but Lanyon discovered a stream with sticks of driftwood scattered on its banks. “Let’s make a meal here while we may.”

“We haven’t hunted,” Kit said.

“There are fish in the stream. I will get some. They cook faster than birds or rabbits anyway. Make a fire. It will take me only a few minutes.”

“It’s best to acquiesce,” Pantheren advised, stooping to pick up a piece of wood. “I assure you nothing will be achieved by argument.”

“How will you get the fish?” Bennek wondered, following Lanyon down to the water. “I had meant to ask how you had done it before.”

She set down her bundles. “I’ve been able to catch fish since I was a little girl. My mother showed me how.” She startled him by pulling off her long black robe. Underneath she was dressed in a black tunic, and in black leather pants. She rolled up her pants until her legs were bare to the knee. Then she took off her shoes and waded into the water. “It’s a simple thing. You face upstream. Then you call the fish with your thoughts.” Her voice grew softer. “Bennek, I have not thanked you for bringing me back when I became lost in the deep places of the Mere. It was all aboil about me, and I didn’t know which way to turn until you came.”

“Why did you become lost?”

“I was pulled under by the spell whose name I spoke.” She trailed her hand in the cold water that sluiced past her knees. “It was an Inyomere’s spell, and much stronger than I am. I should not have called on it, but I didn’t know what else to do. I am grateful you summoned me back, and I thank you.” Then she smiled, and when she spoke again, her voice was merry. “It’s only a small step to summoning fish! You might be able to learn, though in Clan Kyramanthes it was only the women who fished.”

“Show me then.”

She leaned forward, staring intently at the stream’s rippling surface. Before long, her hands plunged into the water and up came a silvery fish that did not flap or wriggle.

“It’s stunned!” Bennek objected, as if this meant she was cheating.

She lobbed it at him and he laughed, jumping aside. “If you will not gather wood then clean the fish,” she commanded.

“As you wish, ma’am.”

~~~

They set out again in the afternoon. Near evening the wind turned and a haze they had hardly been aware of was blown away. A chain of snow-capped mountains stood revealed to the west, surprisingly close, rising abruptly from the green plains of Samokea.

The boys gazed at the peaks in astonishment. “The Tiyat-kel!” Bennek said. He turned to Marshal and Kit. “The Snow Chanter is there. Can you feel it?”

Kit nodded. “These are the very peaks I’ve seen in my dreams.”

“I can see the way in my mind,” Marshal agreed. “Yet the day’s light is fading. We must be content to camp on the plain tonight. But tomorrow we’ll reach the mountains.”

~~~

In that region, the streams that ran down from the Tiyat-kel had cut shallow gullies in the plain. Thickets grew within them, yielding an abundance of fallen wood, so that evening they enjoyed a fire.

Pantheren opened his pack, and from it he took a folded wallet that held an awl, an artisan’s knife, and a small wooden block. Next he unfolded a strap of fine, thin leather. It was the width of his palm and as long as his spear, deep red in color, and for half its length it was written over with finely shaped characters in the script taught to the people long ago by the good Inyomere of Hahví. The characters were made by carving away the red surface of the leather, exposing the white inner layer. They spoke the traditional prayers: of gratitude for the beneficence of the Wild, of devotion to its renewal, and of wrath and reprisal against the arowl. The firelight shone through the script, and the wind swept past it, both powers carrying the prayers into the Mere.

Pantheren sat close to the firelight and, placing the wooden block beneath the leather strap, he began to add new lines to the prayer ribbon. Bennek watched him curiously. He had seen such things in Habaddon, but had only ever been taught to carve the prayers on leaves or the inner side of bark, that would then go into the fire. After a while, it seemed to him the symbols wrote themselves onto the prayer banner, for Pantheren did not appear to be there anymore. “Lanyon,” Bennek wondered, “how long will your hunter’s veil cling to Pantheren?”

She sat on the edge of the firelight working the rabbit skins, stretching and pulling them over a smooth stone to make them supple. “I don’t know.”

He laughed. “How can you not know?”

“But how could I? I called the spell many, many times—more than I ever have before—until it was strong. I wanted it to last until Pantheren reached the Glycian. I meant for him to return to Habaddon, not follow after me.”

At this Pantheren made a dismissive harrumph, but Bennek wanted to know more. “Is there a way to undo the enchantment?”

“Oh yes,” she said in humor, “but Pantheren is safer thus.”

Pantheren answered this sharply—“It’s your safety that matters, Lanyon Kyramanthes, not mine”—and by his words he was made visible again. He was bent over the prayer ribbon, carefully working the lines of a complex symbol. “You would do well to use your skills to hide yourself.”

“My skills are slight. I have not the strength to walk always in veils.”

“You called the fire spell,” Bennek countered. “You armed Pantheren with an enchantment that has endured for days. You crushed a grass fire with a single word. If such skills are deemed slight in Ohtangia, your people must have been great sorcerers. How can it be they didn’t thrive?”

All waited for her answer. Even Pantheren ceased working on his prayer ribbon. She traded a look with him. Then she turned to Bennek. “I learned these skills in Samokea.”

He started to smile, but thought better of it when he saw the glint in her eye. “I don’t understand you.”

“I learned these skills from Édan, who was my husband.”

Bennek was stunned. He wondered if he had misheard her. It was impossible that Édan had been her husband, for he had lived and died long, long ago.

Lanyon said, “You don’t want to believe me, but it is true.”

“But how can it be? Unless you are of the Inyomere? Or have you been bound to this world like Jahallon?”

Bennek had not meant to frighten her. So he was dismayed to see her confidence collapse. Doubt shadowed her face. She turned again to Pantheren. “War Father, could it be so? Have I been cursed as Jahallon is cursed?”

“No! You are here because your spell let you slip through time.”

Bennek understood that she had never considered such a doom before. He desperately wished he had not spoken. “Lanyon, please. Don’t listen to me. Of course it can’t be true.”

The rabbit skin fell from her shaking hands. “I did not mean for it to happen this way! Édan was dead and our children before him, but Siddél was still in the keep and all was afire. I didn’t want to die in the fire! So I called a spell to bridge the moments. To step outside of time for some small while... a chance for the monster to depart, for the fire to pass me by... but with the arrow in my hands the spell became something more.”

She looked at her shaking hands, turning them over in the firelight. “I left the world on that night. I don’t know where I went. It was like being on the edge of some vague, sweet dream. I know that time passed. My heart healed. Jahallon says it is 137 years since the Citadel fell.” She shook her head. “I only know that when I returned I was no older, but everything around me lay in cold ruin.

“I was still within the Citadel of the Snow Chanter, but the walls and towers were fallen and the land was dead, its life all consumed. The wind was freezing and full of dust. It wailed with the lamentation of the Inyomere—all those spirits who had lost their forests and meadows, their streams and ponds, all the creatures of their lands, all of it, forever gone away... even the arowl pits of Siddél were dead and empty.”

She touched a hand to her chest. “I thought some final calamity had befallen the Wild, that it had been forsaken by the One. There was nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. For days I ventured south and there was nothing! War Father, Bennek is right. I should have died.”

“I did not say that!” Bennek protested.

Pantheren spoke to her in a voice both calm and firm. “You’re not like Jahallon. You would know it if you were. Jahallon knew. You’re stronger than you think, and perhaps there’s an effect from Édan’s arrow, so that it sustains you.”

“It must be that,” Bennek said quickly. He went to her. He knelt beside her and took her hand. “Lanyon, please forgive me for frightening you. I speak too quickly. I speak without the least thought. I know it and I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. And in the end it makes no difference. My task is the same.”

There followed gentle questions from Marshal and Kit. They learned that Jahallon had believed Lanyon among the dead on that night the Citadel of the Snow Chanter was overrun. Bennek sat beside her, on the edge of the firelight. “I read an account of that night. Jahallon saw the tower in flames. He saw the roof collapse. He believed all within were dead.”

“He never doubted her death,” Pantheren confirmed. “Not until this summer, when she returned.”

The army had been encamped on the outskirts of Nendaganon when Jahallon sensed her return ‘like a thunderclap in the Mere.’ Jahallon had called Pantheren to him and they left at once, riding north to find her. “I think, Lanyon, you were as astonished to see us as we were to find you.”

“That is true. I saw such devastation. I came to believe I was the last of the people in the Wild.”

“Did Édan make the arrow?” Bennek asked. “Did he make it that night?”

Lanyon nodded miserably. “You have seen its spell. It is a dark and fearsome presence in the Mere. Imagine the forces that were stirred when Édan first made it.”

Bennek understood. “Siddél would have sensed its creation. So he knew what Édan had done. In the account I read, Siddél was heard to thunder, ‘I am come! To see you slain by your own spell.’ Now I know he meant the arrow.”

“Yes, and Édan is gone from the world. But the arrow is still here and I will use it to end Siddél’s life, just as Édan intended.”

Chapter 9

The next day they set out before dawn and by late morning they were only a few miles from the mountains. The highlands rose abruptly out of the plains, standing up behind a towering palisade of gray rock. The black shapes of birds soared in front of the cliffs, while above them an amber-leaved forest climbed up to meet a high country of evergreens that in its turn gave way to ragged snow fields on the cloud-wrapped summits.

It happened that the wind turned, sweeping down from the north in a strong, steady current. Kina the hound had been dividing her time between Pantheren and Bennek, but when the wind changed she loped ahead, stopping on a slight rise, her nose savoring messages carried on the air.

“Hallo girl!” Pantheren called. “What have you found?” When they caught up with her, they discovered the coarse hair of her neck standing on end. A growl rumbled in her throat, and her lips drew up in a cruel snarl. “Everyone, get down now!” Pantheren ordered, and such was the urgency in his voice that they all dropped at once below the level of the tall grass, and Kina lay down with them. “She scents arowl.”

“We have been inattentive!” Marshal said. “It’s been three days since we encountered arowl, but that respite should have made us more vigilant, not less.”

Bennek knew it was he who had been remiss. His talent was far-seeing, but he had not taken the time to search the land since they had set out in the early morning. “I’ll see what I can discover.” The weight of Marshal’s gaze was on him when he closed his eyes and stepped outside himself. He turned in the Fourth Way.

An expansive vision opened to him, yet he discovered no arowl within the reach of his sight. So he extended himself farther, bracing for the dizzying sensation of tumbling away, away from the world... but it didn’t come. A thread within the Mere bound him to himself, and when he had reached as far as he was able, he simply waited. It was only a little while, when a faint, ugly presence stirred on the edge of his senses.

~~~

The others waited anxiously for Bennek’s verdict. Minutes passed. Then Bennek started to tremble. His breathing quickened. A sheen of sweat appeared on his cheeks. “Bennek,” Marshal said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “Bennek, come back.”

Bennek gasped. His eyes opened. “Marshal!”

“What have you seen?”

Kina shoved her head against his shoulder, and he stroked her, taking comfort from her presence. “Arowl. Many arowl.” His frightened gaze turned to the north, though from their low vantage all that could be seen was grass.

“How many is many?” Kit wanted to know. “Thirty? Fifty?”

Bennek stared at him as if he had made a crude joke. His fingers clenched against Kina’s fur. “No, sir,” he whispered. “There are very many more than that. Maybe two hundred fifty. Maybe three hundred. More. Too many to count. They are still some miles to the north, but running hard toward us.” He breathed in quick gasps. His cheeks were flushed. Turning to Lanyon, he said, “Can you make a spell to hide us?”

“There is no time!” Her eyes were wide with fright.

Marshal fixed Bennek with a stern gaze. “It’s up to you to confound them.”

“I cannot confound so many!”

“You will do it if it must be done.”

“Do they know we’re here?” Pantheren asked. “Bennek, can you tell?”

“They are stampeding toward us! Of course they know.”

“Are you sure? Is it us they hunt? Check, Bennek. Confirm it if you can.”

“Do it,” Marshal commanded.

Bennek slipped an arm around Kina’s shoulder. Then he closed his eyes again.

Pantheren looked to Marshal. “The stream we just passed—it had steep banks with overhanging weeds. We could hide ourselves there.”

Kit looked on, an odd half-smile on his face. “We might hide ourselves, but we can’t hide our scent, which has grown somewhat strong of late. It’s a shame, War Father, that your own obscurity is finally fading.”

Pantheren was not taken in. “Kit, it’s too soon to embrace hopelessness.”

“I hope to win through to the Snow Chanter, but if these arowl have been sent by her enemies to stop us, there is no hope in hiding.”

In a shaking voice Lanyon said, “There’s a spell I know that may help to hide our traces and our tracks.”

“Do all you can,” Pantheren told her. “Kit, come with me. Let’s go back to the stream and prepare a place.”

Kit looked ready to resist, but Marshal told him, “Let us try.”

So Kit and Pantheren crawled off through the grass. Kina stayed beside Bennek, as did Marshal and Lanyon. After a minute, he opened his eyes again. He blinked, looking puzzled and anxious. “Well?” Marshal said. “What did you discern?”

“I can’t tell what they hunt. They run with a desperate speed, though toward what I cannot say. More are coming, from west and east. And there are more still to the south, though these run away from us.”

“Then they pursue something else,” Lanyon said. “They don’t know we’re here.”

Marshal nodded. “May it be so. Come. We’ll hide as we can.”

~~~

Kit heard their news and was thoughtful, but Pantheren said, “We must hurry. Already I can hear their yammering. Remember, to hide and do nothing is our best hope, but if you must kill, do it quickly so the beast does not alert its mates.”

The stream had steep, crumbling banks nearly four feet high. Spring floods had undercut them, and then over the long summer weeds had grown over them so that now an amber-leaved drapery concealed a collection of dry and tidy hollows.

Kit directed Bennek to crawl into a sheltered place on the north side. “Lie down against the dry bank and get comfortable. No one may move once we’ve settled.” Kit came in behind him, and readied his bow. There was space left only for Marshal, who slipped in next past the weeds.

“What of Lanyon and Pantheren?” Bennek whispered.

Kit said, “They’ll take Kina and conceal themselves in another hollow just upstream.”

“Now we must be silent,” Marshal whispered. “Not a sound from this moment forward.”

Bennek gazed past the weeds, worrying over the scuff marks left by their boots in the crumbling soil, but even as he watched, a swirling wind lifted them away.

The howls and barking of the arowl pack could be heard clearly now, carried south on the wind. Bennek listened to the bone-chilling cries and the hair on his neck rose, just as Kina’s had. He hoped the dog would lie quietly. He hoped the arowl had other prey in mind—but then he hoped they didn’t, for he wouldn’t wish this pack on anyone.

A tapping on his thigh made him shift his gaze. Marshal gave him an impatient look and Bennek nodded. He closed his eyes and again he let his ghost-self step into the Fourth Way.

Suddenly, the yammering and crying of the arowl was no longer distant. They were all around him and he was a wraith, carried south by a strong wind. He shed fear among them, but they did not notice, so fearful were they already. So he urged them to greater speed, hoping to drive them to exhaustion before they reached the streambed, but they could run no faster than they already did.

~~~

In the half-light under the bank, Marshal watched his brother. He was not reassured by the tension, the raw fear on Bennek’s face.

The crying of the pack drew rapidly nearer. The hard tread of their paws and hooves reverberated in the ground, growing louder and louder as the seconds passed until the pack was upon them. Be still, Marshal thought. Restrain your fear and move not. To his pride, neither Kit nor Bennek gave way to panic—even when the first arowl hit the bank just a few feet away.

It was another of the great dire wolves like the one Bennek had slain. Diagonal slashes of thin white fur scarred its shoulders, just like the other, while a festering wound at the neck made it easy to see the collar it wore. A remnant chain swung loose at its throat, clanging as the beast leaped across the streambed. It landed on the southern bank and raced away.

Three smaller wolfish arowl leaped down into the stream, splashing across it. A panting were-wolf followed on their heels.

Next, the ground trembled with heavy footfalls. Part of the bank gave way, collapsing beneath the weight of a massive were-bear—its body all too much like that of a huge man, but with a wickedly distorted bear’s head.

The beast slid into the streambed. It stood there on its two massive legs that were like a man’s legs, but covered in long brown fur. In its furry hands it held a spear tipped with a stone-blade the length of Marshal’s forearm. Its cheeks were marked with slashes of white fur. The beast jerked its bear-like head from side to side while its nostrils flared suspiciously, hunting a teasing scent. Then it pointed its snout at the sky and uttered a long, forlorn keening—a loathsome sound that no bear of the Wild had ever made.

Kit was trembling. Bennek’s knuckles were white around the shaft of his spear.

The were-bear listened as another of its kind answered its cry from far away. It sniffed the air again and started to swing its head low... then suddenly a fresh sense of urgency came over it. It barked in vile syllables. Then it climbed the southern bank and loped away.

The howling of the pack grew gradually fainter, until after many minutes it was gone altogether. Then the only sound was the hiss of wind in the grass. Marshal was startled to discover he had drawn his bow. He eased it to a resting position.

“They are gone,” Bennek whispered. “They have all gone away south.”

Marshal slipped out from the hollow to meet Pantheren by the stream. Kina slunk beside him, leashed and trembling. “I have never seen or heard of such a migration,” Pantheren said. “I fear what it means.”

“Do you think they intend an assault on Habaddon?”

“That is the simplest answer, and yet it would take many more arowl than these to threaten our city.”

“I’m worried they will turn back to hunt us,” Marshal admitted. “Let’s go on as quickly as we may.”

~~~

They followed the stream, and within an hour they reached the great palisade. Marshal gazed up at it. “I’ve seen this place in my dreams.” The cliff was smooth and sheer and appeared impossible to climb, but Marshal was untroubled. “Come,” he said, leading them north. “There’s a break in the wall not far from here.”

His prescience proved true. The wall had been fractured in some ancient cataclysm, and they were able to climb up through a narrow fissure. It was hot and exhausting work, for the wind could not get into the crevice and the rock walls redoubled the heat of the sun, while the precipitous slopes were heavily overgrown. Through the whole long climb they couldn’t see what transpired on the plains, except for a narrow vista looking east—but there, at least, they saw no more arowl.

The afternoon was half-gone by the time they reached the top of the palisade. Lanyon had removed her black robe during the climb, but as they left the shelter of the fissure, the powerful north wind swept down on them, and she quickly put it on again.

They rested a few minutes and shared a small meal, all the while watching the plains below, but no arowl moved there, nor anything larger than a soaring pheasant.

They went on, climbing through a forest bright with autumn colors, until in the evening they came on a little valley nestled among peaks. Here they decided to make their camp. Lanyon stayed up late to sew the rabbit hide into shoes, and Pantheren helped her in this task. So they were still awake when Kit stirred, rising in the middle night to take the watch as was his custom. His eyes glistened in the fire’s ruddy light. “I have dreamed of the Snow Chanter,” he whispered. “She knows we have come.”

Lanyon looked on him in wonder. “You’ve seen the way to her?”

“She is at the summit of this mountain, trapped within ice, but the way is perilous.” He said this with a half-smile as if it pleased him. “Still, if the goats may climb there, we can too.”

Chapter 10

Marshal had shared the same dream as Kit, and all were eager to seek the path to the summit, so on the next morning they set out early. They hiked first to the back of the valley. There they were met by a great gray cliff like a second palisade, rising a thousand feet or more before disappearing into gray, swirling clouds.

Goats lived on this cliff. They were the same charcoal gray as the stone and they did not bleat, for such sounds would summon the arowl. At the approach of the people they retreated up the cliff. Pantheren watched them. Then he turned a doubtful eye on Kit. “You are sure this is the way?”

Kit grinned. “War Father, do you hesitate?”

Pantheren made a rumbling noise deep in his throat. “You will not find many foolhardy old men in the world.”

“The way is difficult,” Marshal admitted. “But it’s not as bad as it looks. We have only to follow the goat paths.”

“I cannot see any paths,” Lanyon said quietly. She looked a little queasy.

Bennek touched her hand. His sleep had been too deep for dreaming, but the heights did not daunt him, and he was eager to make the most of the day. “I’ll help you climb. It won’t be long before we reach the top and with luck we’ll find the Snow Chanter today.”

Though the cliff seemed nearly sheer, the goats had found ways to traverse it, following steep inclines, narrow ledges, and deep grooves that wound up the rock face. Kit set out first to scout a way, looking for rocks that were scuffed and scarred by hooves, and ledges carpeted in goat dung. Marshal came behind him, though his gaze was as often on the valley as on the rocks ahead, for he worried that an arowl pack would discover their trail.

Kina came behind them, trembling and uncertain in places, but in others jumping boldly over crevices that the people would cross only with great care. Pantheren followed behind the hound, encouraging her in narrow places, and helping Lanyon who came after him. Bennek came last, and in his calm confidence Lanyon found a reassuring presence.

The way was steep and the heights terrifying, but they encouraged one another as they went. At the worst parts one would cross, then turn and reach a hand back for the next. At other points they would crawl and creep, holding onto the rocks so that their palms were soon bruised and reddened. Each step brought with it a dreadful awareness of the cliff, and the giddy gulf of air, only a misstep away.

“I shall dream of heights forever,” Lanyon whispered when they rested at mid-morning, perched in an aerie of rock far above the valley floor. “I think I would have made a very unhappy bird.”

Pantheren grunted. “If I were a bird, I would be a partridge crouched beneath thickets.”

Kit laughed and threw a stone off the cliff face. It seemed to fall forever. “If I had to be a bird, I would be a hawk and spy out the arowl for the people.”

“It’s sad birds don’t help us in this way,” Bennek mused. “Then again, it’s not their task to care for the Wild.”

~~~

They reached the top of the escarpment near noon and found themselves in a wide mountain pass carpeted in golden heath, and fenced on north and south by gray peaks frosted with snow. Marshal, Kit and Bennek took counsel together. All could feel the will of the Snow Chanter, drawing them on to a place of ice and deadly cold. “I’m sure of this much,” Marshal said. “We must seek the far end of this pass.”

So they set out again, making good time through the heath, and by mid-afternoon they had traversed the pass, and reached the western side of the mountains. Here they looked down a long slope of loose gray stone that ended abruptly a half mile below them, as if at a precipice. Far below, a vast, brown land reached to the horizon. Dark pits scarred its face, softened only a little by a haze of blowing dust. Nowhere in that expanse did they see the hopeful green of trees or grass. Nowhere the blue of water. A stiff wind tore at the fabric of Lanyon’s robe. “Behold the arowl pits of Siddél,” she said. “The monster would destroy the Wild, rather than let us live in it.”

“Look to the north,” Marshal urged them. “Through the haze, just on the edge of sight. Those are mountains running west. Surely they are the Armory Peaks that we saw on the maps?”

“Indeed,” Pantheren said. “Among those peaks were the iron quarries of Samoket. Now we know just how far north we have come.”

Lanyon turned away from the precipice, hugging herself against the cold blast of the wind. “Where now shall we go?” Even as she asked the question, she looked up at the northern heights, and found her answer. There she saw two peaks that had not been visible from within the pass. In the high saddle between them was a white cliff, blindingly bright in the sunlight so that she knew it was not stone at all, but ice. More ice lay below it in an apron nestled between the slopes.

“The Snow Chanter is there,” she announced, as the knowledge washed over her with the certainty of enchantment. “Marshal, turn and look. Tell me, do you feel it too?”

Marshal’s eyes went wide. Bennek and Kit confirmed it.

“We have found her, men,” Kit said. “But we must hurry, for the day will soon begin to wane.”

Kit set a blistering pace, and by late afternoon they reached the crumbling edge of the ice field. Over the summer the ice had eroded, so that it stood in fantastic towers and crumbling arches that caught fire in the lowering sun. Glistening iron ore was piled at its boundary and melt water ran from it in a net of dripping, trickling, gushing streams that made a bog of the approach.

They climbed the gray rocks alongside the frozen field. Bennek felt the near presence of the Snow Chanter, and yet she was not near enough. They climbed higher. The ice field grew wider as they ascended until after half an hour they were looking out across a vast labyrinth of pinnacles and crevices, all agleam with the orange glow of the descending sun.

Marshal called a halt. He stood with his eyes half closed, as if listening. “She is here. So close, I can almost hear her heart beating.” He shrugged off his pack, and then he laid his bow beside it. Bennek and Kit did the same. Carrying only their swords, they set out across the ice, slipping and skidding as they went and catching themselves with their hands, which were protected from the cold only by the unlined leather of their bowman’s gloves.

Pantheren called Kina and leashed her to the packs. “I will not have her break a leg,” he told Lanyon, who was putting on her new shoes, pulling them on over her old ones, the better to keep her feet warm. “Wait here until we find something.”

“I cannot. I promised I would help them in their quest.” So she followed after Pantheren, leaving Kina to whine at the indignity of being left behind.

~~~

They wandered among spires, crevices, caves, and glistening arches, pursuing the presence of the Snow Chanter, but in the labyrinth of the ice she seemed to be everywhere and nowhere... as if the sense of her presence was mirrored in every glassy surface, a thousand reflections of her gravity and none of them the true source.

Marshal could not say which way was the right way to find the frozen prison where she lay entombed. Kit could not sense the path that would lead to her. Bennek felt her presence as a fierce desire for freedom seeping up from the ice, inconstant, deceptive, pulling him in a hundred different directions that led nowhere.

Their hands and feet had long since gone icy and numb. Pantheren had made Lanyon wear his gloves, but still her hands were almost too cold to grip. Now the sun was nearing the horizon. Marshal watched in despair as its rim struck the edge of the world.

“We have tomorrow,” Pantheren said gently. “New hope may rise with the sun.”

“We must find her!” Bennek insisted. “We can’t fail now.”

The day’s end had come. The sun passed from the Wild. Bitter cold descended on them so that even Marshal began to shiver. “Let’s find some wood then,” he said, “and make a camp before the light fails.”

Moving in a glum line, they made their way back toward the packs. Bennek went last, trailing behind Lanyon. Every few steps he paused to gaze again across the ice. So it was that he saw gray movement to the north, where the twilight reflected from the ice in cool hues. Something was moving in the labyrinth, silent and fleet. Not arowl. No arowl could be so quiet.

He clambered up a pedestal of ice to get a better look, but he took one step too far. The ice underneath him shattered. He cried out, plunging fifteen feet or more into a fissure, where he struck bottom, hard. Shards of falling ice crashed around him. He rolled over and covered his head until it stopped. Then he sat up slowly, wincing at his bruised back and side.

A deep twilight surrounded him. There was just enough light to make out an uneven floor, like scar tissue forming as the ice split apart. Smooth blue walls towered on either side, rising to a fragile roof of white ice with a hole broken in it where he had fallen. Standing up, Bennek unsheathed his knife, knowing he would not be climbing out until he cut steps.

“Bennek?” Lanyon’s frantic cry reached him from a distance. “Bennek what happened? Where are you?”

“I’m here, Lanyon. I fell through the ice.”

“I hear you! But I don’t know where you are.”

Again, gray movement caught his eye. He looked around, the knife ready in his hand. Not a spear’s length away sat a great snow leopard watching him with blue eyes faintly luminous in the shadows. It was a beautiful creature, its long white fur marked in dancing half-circles of black. “Hallo,” he called softly.

The cat slipped soundlessly round a corner and out of sight. Cautiously, Bennek followed after it. He peered past the corner to discover a small, slender woman waiting there, not four feet tall, dressed in a robe of snow leopard fur. She had long white hair, and blue eyes that gleamed bright with their own light. Bennek knew without doubt that she was the Inyomere of this place: of the high peak, the ice, the trickling meltwater. Tiny, quiet, surely seldom seen, she would be a minor power measured against the Snow Chanter or Siddél, but a power she remained, as old as the Wild.

He bowed to her. “Greetings, Blessed One.” She didn’t answer, and when he looked again, she had become the cat once more.

Marshal’s stern voice descended on him. “Bennek, Pantheren has gone back for a rope.”

“Good,” Bennek called. “We’ll need it to climb out again. Now you must jump down, for the Snow Chanter has sent us an emissary.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is an Inyomere here, and she has come to show us the way. Do ask Lanyon if she can conjure a light.”

~~~

They widened the hole in the roof of the fissure. Then Marshal lowered Lanyon, holding her by her wrists. At full reach, her booted feet swung just above Bennek’s head. “Ready?” Marshal asked. Her eyes were wide, but she nodded. “Fall softly,” he ordered. “Now.”

She dropped. Bennek caught her, steadying her landing. “You’re trembling.”

“It’s so very cold here.”

He started to slip off his coat to put it around her, but she refused. “I have Pantheren’s gloves, and you must keep your own warmth. Let us go quickly, and find an end to this.”

Next Marshal handed Kit down. Then Pantheren returned with the rope and Marshal used it to descend. Pantheren would wait at the edge of the fissure, ready to help them climb out again.

“We can’t survive the night here,” he warned them. “If you haven’t found her in half an hour, give it up, and we’ll return tomorrow.”

“We’ll be back,” Marshal said, “with the Snow Chanter.”

The leopard had waited patiently during their preparations, but now it set off at a fast pace through the twisting fissure. Bennek raced after it. Kit kept close behind him, but Lanyon, hampered by the rough ground and the hem of her robe, quickly fell behind. Marshal stayed with her, though he couldn’t quite hide his impatience. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You should go on.”

“No. It’s I who apologize, and for my brother and cousin too. I won’t neglect you, Lanyon. And if it’s any consolation, I think they will need you soon enough.”

He spoke truly, for as the fissure twisted from left to right to left again it descended deeper into the ice, until the frosted ceiling hardened into a heavy roof and the shadowy light yielded to impenetrable darkness. Kit and Bennek turned back to meet them. “The Inyomere has gone on,” Kit reported, “but we can’t see to take another step. Lanyon, can you make a light?”

“I can. That is a simple spell. Give me your hand.”

She slipped off a glove, and told Kit to do the same. Then she took his bare hand in hers, and while his skin was cold, hers was like the ice. “Cup your hand,” she instructed. She set her palm over his and whispered a simple chant. A pale glow seeped between her trembling fingers. She took her hand away, revealing an orb of soft white light nestled in Kit’s palm. It glowed without heat. “Turn your hand over,” she said. He obeyed. The light did not fall away, but remained against his palm.

Lanyon put her glove back on, and on they went, with Bennek in the lead, relying on the wavering gleam of Kit’s light to find the way. This time Bennek was forced to go slower than he liked, for Kit set a pace Lanyon could manage.

The tunnel was high and narrow, the facets of its fractured walls reflecting Kit’s light a thousand times over. All could feel as much as hear a deep bass grinding: the complaint of the ice as it flowed slowly, slowly down the mountain.

They had not gone far when they discovered the snow leopard again. It stood in the tunnel, its tail twitching. Bennek approached it, but this time the leopard growled softly and did not move back.

“We are not to go on,” Marshal said.

Kit looked about, perplexed. “There is nothing here.”

Bennek went to his knees before the Inyomere. “Blessed Spirit of the Ice, we beg you to guide us to Tayeraisa the Snow Chanter.” The leopard reared back, hissing and spitting. Bennek shied from its teeth. “Can it be a haunt of Siddél? Sent to trap us?”

“No,” Marshal said. “She’s here. We have only to discover her.”

Lanyon turned to Kit. “There are so many reflections here. Hide the light within your coat.”

He did it. Darkness rushed in to fill the tunnel, a breath-stealing darkness tasting of eternal cold.

“I see nothing,” Bennek said.

Marshal told him, “Look up.”

In the glassy ceiling they could just make out a faint white glow arising from deep within the ice. As their eyes adjusted, the glow gained definition, taking on the shape of a wizened woman with long white hair.

“Tayeraisa,” Kit whispered. “She has used Lanyon’s simple spell of pale light.”

They had found her, but they could not reach her, for the Snow Chanter lay entombed behind many feet of solid ice.

Chapter 11

Marshal drew his sword. “Stand back,” he commanded. They retreated. Bennek looked for the snow leopard, but she had disappeared.

Marshal swung his sword, striking the ice hard, twisting the blade as it hit. A few chips fell away. He struck again, but the ice was as hard as time and the Snow Chanter lay deep. Days would be required to chip her free.

Bennek turned to Lanyon. “You have the fire spell.”

“There is nothing here to burn!”

“Do you have some other spell?” Marshal asked. “Something to shatter the ice?”

“No! I don’t know any—” Her hand went to her mouth.

“What is it?” Bennek asked. “What are you thinking?”

“The arrow.” She took off the strap that held Édan’s arrow against her back. Kneeling in the bitter cold, she unwrapped the bundle. All watched with great curiosity. They were surprised to see that the bundle contained not just the arrow, but also a carved stick of strange design, with a small hook at one end and a grip at the other.

The arrow itself was beautiful. Its shaft was silver, worked with a spiral of gold, and its feathers were white. Prayers were inscribed all over its mirrored arrowhead. Beside it the carved stick was a dull thing but she stripped off her gloves and picked up the stick first. “What is that?” Bennek asked her.

“Have you not seen such before? It’s a spear-thrower. I did not have time or skill to make a bow, but this I could manage. We played games with these when I was a child, though I made this one to fit the nock of the arrow.”

“But how is it used?”

She picked up the arrow and stood. “Stand away and I will show you.” Her bare fingers ached with cold; she could not stop their trembling. Still, she managed to fit the nock of the arrow against the spear-thrower’s hook. The fingers of her right hand curled around the grip, balancing the arrow’s shaft. She cocked her arm. The arrow was a physical object and anyone might cast it, but the spell it carried was fickle and shifting; like a weight sliding on the shaft, it was sure to unbalance the arrow’s flight and send it spinning wild unless she spent her will to guide it through the Mere.

Fixing her mind on the spell’s path, she hurled the arrow. It struck the ice with tremendous force. White cracks shot through the tunnel wall. Deathly cold flooded the Mere. The cold shot back along the arrow’s path. It entered her fingertips. She screamed and dropped the spear-thrower, scuttling back as massive blocks of ice crashed to the floor. Kit dove in to scoop up the spear-thrower and the winding cloth a moment before they were buried. The light he carried filled the tunnel and danced in a thousand sliding facets.

When the last shrill notes of falling ice finally died away Kit said, “She has a stronger arm than you, Marshal.”

Above them, where the wall and ceiling had fallen, the right hand of the Snow Chanter was exposed—the nails white as frost and the skin shriveled, wrinkled, clinging tightly around her delicate finger bones. The rest of her body was still entombed.

Lanyon closed her eyes, desperate to leave that place. The cold of the ice was inside her and her bones hurt. Her chest ached. Her heart felt as if it was slowing in its own timeless winter. “Help me find the arrow. Please.”

Bennek leaped onto the pile of fallen ice, kicking and shoving the blocks aside until he uncovered the arrow. He brought it to Lanyon, and again she balanced it with the spear-thrower, and cocked her arm.

“Lanyon,” Marshal said with quiet urgency. He pointed to the ceiling, where an ominous net of white cracks had infiltrated the clear ice. “Perhaps you should strike more gently this time.”

Lanyon nodded. Then she launched the arrow again, and again the ice shattered, but this time it collapsed in a hailstorm of glittering pieces that clattered with the voices of a thousand tiny knives all dropped at once. The frozen pebbles tumbled against Lanyon’s feet. She dropped to her knees, undone by the cold that flooded her in the backwash of the spell.

But her work was done. Tayeraisa had been freed.

The Snow Chanter lay limp, half-buried in the avalanche of crumbled ice. She was nude and skeletally thin, her white skin shrunken and stretched over bones that could be counted even in Kit’s pale light. Her hair was a tangled white mat, and her breasts were empty sacs. They would have taken her for a corpse, except she blinked. The eyes that looked on them from that faded being were a blue as bright as the bluest sky.

In a moment Marshal was beside her. He scooped her up and she felt as light as a child in his arms. He carried her beyond the debris, and then laid her down again. Slipping off his own coat, he dressed her in it. “Blessed One,” he whispered, “you called us and we have come.”

Her chest rose as she drew a deep breath, a breath of satisfaction, so it seemed. Marshal helped her to sit up. She smiled at him, and her gaze lingered on his face for many seconds. Then she turned to look at Bennek and then at Kit. “My sons,” she whispered, as a rosy flush touched her cheeks. “I live again because you heeded my call.” They both fell to their knees.

“You are our ancestor,” Marshal said. “The mother of our people. You have our love and our loyalty, Blessed One. You honor us by your return.”

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply again. “Do you know what a dangerous thing you’ve done by freeing me?”

“Ma’am?”

She looked at him again, and her gaze grew hard. “I know the lies Siddél has spread. He has led my own people to believe I destroyed myself. Is this not so?”

Marshal was taken aback. He looked to Kit, but there was no help there. He turned to Lanyon.

She was kneeling on the ice. The cold had driven all color from her face so that even her lips were pale, and she was shivering so hard she had not gotten her gloves back on, and still she spoke boldly when she answered the Snow Chanter. “It is so, Blessed One. It’s said you were overcome with grief after the passing of Samoket, and gave yourself up to the Mere.”

“That is a lie of Siddél. It was not grief that drove me to the ice. It was Siddél himself. My enemy. That great thundering monster!”

Lanyon nodded. “I have a thing to show you, far mother.” Bennek guessed what she intended. He went back into the broken ice, and again he found the arrow and brought it to her. Tayeraisa craned her withered neck to see. “What is that evil thing?”

“It is a talisman bound to the Mere with a spell that will slay Siddél.”

“You cannot slay Siddél. He is no petty Inyomere. The Snow Leopard you might destroy, and never again would the call of those cats be heard amid the peaks; or if you murdered the fish-silver spirit of a stream, then ever after its waters would be foul. But Siddél is the thunder and the storm, and such a power may never be extinguished from the world.”

Lanyon heard these words and despair came over her, but to the Snow Chanter she said, “Then you speak my doom, for nevertheless I will try.”

This resolve pleased Tayeraisa and she smiled. “It is not possible for you to slay Siddél,” she repeated. “Still, it may be that you could use this evil weapon to destroy his form, separate him from his flesh, sever his awareness so that he cannot practice his magic or his malice. Such was the fate he wished on me.”

Then Lanyon knew hope once again, despite the crushing cold. “That would be enough,” she conceded in a rasping voice.

Tayeraisa chuckled. It was confounding, as if a corpse lay laughing in Marshal’s arms.

“We should go,” Marshal said nervously. “We have overstayed our time and Pantheren will be desperate. Kit, go first and light the way. Bennek, see to Lanyon. All haste now!”

He reached to lift Tayeraisa again, but to their surprise she stood. “I am not my old self,” she said, swaying on her feet. “Not yet, though that will change, thanks to the devotion of my children.” Then she turned a discerning gaze on Lanyon. “I know all my children, no matter how changed. You, I will name my little sister.”

Lanyon bowed again, though she was troubled by these words. Bennek came to her, and with his help she re-wrapped Édan’s arrow and the spear-thrower in their winding cloth. “I am so cold,” she whispered to him. “I can’t bear to feel the arrow against me.”

“Let me carry it for you.”

She nodded, and by this surrender he knew her strength must be nearly gone. He took the bundle and looped it over his back. Then he slipped an arm around her waist to steady her, while the Snow Chanter accepted Marshal’s offer of support. They made their way through the tunnel and into the fissure.

The sky had gone dark and the cold was fierce—much worse than in the deep reaches of the ice tunnel. Marshal whistled, and Pantheren answered him at once, “What report?”

“We are safe, and we have found her.”

~~~

They made their way off the ice, guided by starlight. Kina paid them an ecstatic greeting. The cold had become an iron presence. All sounds of water dripping and trickling had ceased. Lanyon could not stop shaking, nor feel her fingers or toes.

In haste they retreated into the pass, taking shelter at last in a copse of ancient, twisted evergreens. Kit’s light had faded and Lanyon was too weary to create another, so they groped for dead wood in the dark. Then Lanyon called the name of the fire spell, setting the pile instantly ablaze.

~~~

The alpine night turned their breath to frost and transformed the water skins to solid ice, but Tayeraisa the Snow Chanter was unaffected by the cold. She sat cross-legged before the fire with Marshal’s coat draped loosely about her, staring trance-like into the flames. She had retreated into herself and would not speak. Nor would she accept any food or water. Instead she seemed to nourish herself from the frigid air and the fire’s dancing light, for hour by hour her appearance changed. Life filled her shriveled skin. A flush of gold crept through the tangled white mass of her hair. Flesh gathered in the hollows of her cheeks, and a white mist draped her body like a garment weaving itself into existence.

Lanyon sat across from her, huddled close to the fire, and no longer was it possible to mistake her for one of the Inyomere. Her frailty was all too clear as she hugged herself and shivered within her robe. Bennek crouched beside her. “Are you not warmer now?”

“No,” she whispered past the chattering of her teeth. “When I used Édan’s arrow the cold of the ice passed into me. I cannot stop shaking. I can hardly feel the warmth of the fire. If I were to climb into it I think it would not hurt me.”

“Lanyon! You must not say such things. I’ll help you to get warm. Here, I’ve brought you my blanket. I’ll put it around you.”

“It won’t help. There is no heat inside me.”

“I’ll warm the blanket by the flames.”

“No. Just sit with me. Put the blanket around both of us. Let me share your warmth.”

He frowned awkwardly, but he did as she asked, and in a few minutes her shivering subsided and a ruddy flush touched her cheeks. “You’re warmer now?”

She nodded. “But please stay with me a little while more.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and stared past the flames at Tayeraisa, lost in her Inyomere trance. Her chest rose and fell with long, slow breaths, and firelight danced in her glassy eyes. “Watch her,” Lanyon said softly. “She draws the heat inside herself, and with every passing moment she grows stronger.”

“You freed her,” Bennek said. “That’s where your strength has gone. You should sleep now. Rest. You look so tired.”

“Will you lie down with me? I’m afraid of the cold. If I could lie between you and the fire, I think I will be all right.”

Again Bennek felt awkwardness descend on him. He didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” Lanyon whispered.

“No! Of course I’ll do all I can for you. My turn at the watch comes late. So let’s lie here by the fire and you’ll become warm. I am warm now.”

“I know it. You’re warmer than the fire.”

They lay down together beneath the blanket. Bennek felt her hair against his face and the curve of her body against his belly. He gazed at her cheek and the line of her shoulder. He knew he was breathing too fast. Other things were moving in him too. “It’s so hot now,” he whispered. “I think we are too close to the fire.”

“No, it is perfect.” Her voice sounded slurred, as if she was already on the edge of sleep. “You have saved my life, Bennek.”

“Will you teach me the fire spell, then?”

“I have told you that I would. Not tonight though. I am so tired.”

“Tomorrow, then. Lanyon, are you not hot?”

“I’m just right... but what of the arrow? Is it safe?”

“It’s with my pack.”

She nodded, and slowly her breathing steadied until he knew she was asleep. He didn’t think he would ever sleep, but it wasn’t much later when his eyes closed too.

Chapter 12

Bennek woke abruptly, overcome by a sense of alarm. Lanyon still lay beside him and the fire still burned with ruddy coals, but beyond the sheltering boughs of the stunted evergreens the sky was lightening, and he had not served his turn at the watch.

He rolled out from under the blanket and sat up, looking for his bow and some evidence of disaster. But both Kit and Pantheren slept quietly by the fire, while at the edge of the grove Marshal kept the watch, his tall figure silhouetted against the pale sky. Kina sat beside him, her sharp gaze following something in the pass beyond.

Bennek found his bow, and silently, he ran to join Marshal. As he reached the edge of the trees the pass spread out before him. He was startled to see a pale figure walking there. At first he took it for a ghost. “That is Tayeraisa,” Marshal said softly. “She has been walking under starlight for many hours. Her beauty has returned, and the wind has combed her hair into long tresses of gold.”

“You have’t slept? You’ve watched all night?”

“No. Pantheren and Kit have shared the watch.”

“Why did Kit not wake me? It was my turn after his.”

Marshal gave his brother a cool look. “I told him I would take your turn. Lanyon had need of you. It wounded her to use Édan’s arrow. It let the ice take her warmth.”

“It’s true she couldn’t escape the cold. The fire would not warm her.”

“Pantheren said that sometimes it’s only the warmth of life that can reach a chilled soul... but it would not do for me or Kit or Pantheren to lie with her, for we are men. You’re only a boy. That’s why she could ask you to keep her warm.”

This stung, for Bennek could not recall any failure of deed that would lead Marshal to say such a thing. “I am as much a man as you, Marshal!”

“You are fifteen,” Marshal said. “A full two years younger than Kit and I.”

“A man is measured by his deeds, not his years.”

“In the hunt that is true, but women have other measures.”

“You want to shame me!”

“I do not! I tell you these things so you will not feel any shame over this night. There has been no disrespect because you are still a boy.”

“Is it disrespectful then, to lie with a woman? I know there was a woman in Habaddon whom you would visit, Marshal. Did you keep her warm, while her husband was cold in the grave?”

“That is something you are too young to understand.” He raised his hand to stop Bennek from speaking. “Say no more. Your ill temper leads you to unseemly speech, when silence would serve you better. Go now to scout the cliff’s edge. I would know if there are arowl in the lands below. Go, and leave your wrath to wither in the fields.”

~~~

Lanyon awakened in time to witness some of this exchange. She could not make out their words, but the tenor was clear. Some of the chill of the night returned to her. It didn’t help when she turned to find Pantheren awake and watching her with somber eyes. “Are you well, Lanyon Kyramanthes?”

“As well as may be.”

Bennek had gone, but he had left Édan’s arrow beside his pack, so she retrieved it. The bundle was cold in her hands, but it was not the monstrous cold of the ice flow, so she took it again into her care.

Kit awoke, and soon Marshal returned to the encampment with Tayeraisa. Her transformation was startling to see. During the night her skin had become smooth and flush, her hair golden and full. She had conjured herself a long tunic and soft pants of a pale golden hue that matched the high valley’s autumn heath. She laughed easily, and her eyes sparkled with the joy of new-found freedom.

Pantheren met her and bowed, for there had been no chance for him to pay his respects before, in their desperate haste to leave the ice field. The Snow Chanter regarded him with a discerning eye. “You are not Samokeän, but belong to Jahallon’s people, I think.”

“You read it right, ma’am, though Habaddon has been home to Samokea-in-exile these many years.” He sighed. “It is a wonder to me that you’re here. There is so much I would ask you, so much I would know, but there is no time. The season is late, and I fear that if we do not flee these heights, Siddél will bring a storm to waylay us.”

“I share this fear. I will dream of his dissolution, but I am drained and I must seek shelter as soon as may be. If Siddél were to discover me now, I would fall to him again.”

“Then let us breakfast swiftly,” Marshal said, “and move on in haste, though I don’t know what shelter we can hope to find.”

“These mountains are my dominion,” Tayeraisa reminded him. “I have many hidden places where we may take shelter, the closest but a few hours to the north, in the low hills that face the eastern plains.”

So they ate a hasty breakfast and set out, even before Bennek returned. He met them near the eastern end of the pass, reporting that the lands below appeared abandoned, with nothing moving larger than a bird.

~~~

To the relief of all, the Snow Chanter did not ask them to climb down the cliff wall. Instead she led them on an easy track north through the mountains. Gray clouds gathered about the peaks. As the morning aged they spread out to fill the sky, and a light snow began to fall. It frosted the ground but did not hinder their passage, first through groves of gnarled and twisted evergreens, and then past lush stands of cedar and hemlock that finally gave way to a broad-leaved forest glittering in an autumn finery of red and gold; and still the snow followed after them, down and down into the foothills, and the Snow Chanter turned her face to it and laughed in girlish delight.

In early afternoon they came on a stream that ran chattering through the forest, and this they followed to the forest’s edge. Here the trees stood guard as the plain rolled up against the feet of the Tiyat-kel. They gazed out over the sweep of the grassland, but the air was misty and they could not see far.

“We are come to the eastern edge of my home,” Tayeraisa said. “Long ago, I named this place Kesh. I have not been here in oh so many seasons. Not since I met Samoket, for I never crossed to the eastern side of the mountains when I knew him.” Then she laughed at their confusion, for she had promised them shelter, but they saw only the plains, the trees, and the mountains behind them. “Come!” she said merrily. “You must endure only a few more steps to find the comfort promised you.”

She turned toward the stream, and now they saw a graceful bridge arching over it and on the other side there appeared a beautiful white house. It had rafters of polished red wood that ended in upward sweeping curves, and a roof of golden thatch. The wide front door looked to be made of beaten gold. A porch ran all around, and from the chimney a curl of gray smoke wound up into the sky.

“Who is at home?” Marshal wondered, as he reached up for the hilt of his sword.

“We are!” the Snow Chanter answered with a laugh. “I do not know what passes in this house when I am away, but if ever I return, it’s as if I have only just left.”

“As if the house has stepped through time,” Lanyon whispered, but the Snow Chanter had already hurried across the bridge and did not hear her.

The cottage door opened onto a large room. The Snow Chanter circled it, throwing open shutters so that the house was filled with the day’s glimmering light. There was a fireplace, with neatly stacked embers, hot beneath jackets of gray ash. Rugs were scattered across the floor. A low, polished table was surrounded with cushions and decorated with a bowl of fresh, fragrant camellias. And on a sideboard a brush and inkpot kept company with a tiny lacquered box holding squares of white paper for the writing of prayers to be released within the fire.

Kina stood at the door and whined, but Pantheren commanded her to stay outside.

“You will be hungry,” Tayeraisa said as she opened cabinets no one had noticed before. “I don’t partake much of food, but there are things here that Samoket enjoyed.”

Kit went to look. “There is bread!” he announced. “Dried meat, cheese, dried fruits, and milk. How can there be milk? There is not a cow.”

“Maybe it’s goat’s milk?” Pantheren suggested with a grin.

“Is any of it real?” Bennek wondered, picking up a small loaf and sniffing at it suspiciously. He bit into it. Evidently it was real enough, for he finished it quickly.

“There is a bath house,” Tayeraisa remembered, opening a back door and pointing down a cobbled path that led to a small out-building. Smoke puffed from the chimney. They went to look, and discovered a hearty fire heating a round brass tub filled with water piped from the stream. An overflow of warm water fed a shower a few steps below the level of the tub.

None of them had ever seen anything so wonderful. Not even Pantheren, who had lived in the great southern city of Hallah for a year.

~~~

Lanyon went first to bathe. Then, while the men took their turn, she set to preparing a bountiful meal from the stores in Tayeraisa’s cabinets. She had just set the food out on the table when Bennek and Pantheren came in. “Where is the Snow Chanter?” Pantheren wondered. “I would speak with her.”

“I am here,” Tayeraisa answered, appearing suddenly at the front door. “I have brought a gift for Lanyon.” Neatly folded over her arm were garments the color of autumn fields. “I made these for you. The black garments you wear now are so like the funeral raiment of a fallen warrior, it saddens my heart.”

Lanyon’s cheeks grew warm. “I beg your forgiveness, ma’am. I will discard these somber clothes at once.”

“Why do you blush?” Bennek wondered.

“Indeed,” Pantheren said. “Now you have stirred our curiosity. Where did you come by these garments?”

Lanyon looked scandalized. “I will not say.”

She took the clothing Tayeraisa had given her and returned a few minutes later, dressed in soft brown pants and tunic, and calf-high leather boots. Édan’s arrow was now in a sturdy leather case fitted with a fur-padded strap. There was also a long coat of tight weave and great warmth, but this Lanyon set aside, for it was pleasant within the house. Pantheren looked at her with laughing eyes, but Bennek’s gaze was suspicious as he watched her cross the room. “Your garments were funeral raiment, weren’t they? That’s why you will not say.”

“They are gone now.”

“Why did you dress so? Do you have a death wish, Lanyon? Did you await your own last rites?”

She turned to him, outraged. “It was not like that!”

“Then what?” he insisted.

“Bennek, they were only clothes!”

“Whose clothes?” Pantheren wondered.

Lanyon made a cry of exasperation. “Has the Snow Chanter not already told you? They are the raiment of the dead. I took them from a tomb that I passed on the road from the Citadel. Bennek! Do not make such an expression of distaste. The garments were not foul. There was a magic protecting that grave, and the fallen warrior who wore them was not corrupt.”

“But... you despoiled a grave,” Bennek muttered, as if this was an impossible thought.

“By necessity! The night was freezing.”

“Sacredness must bow to necessity,” Pantheren said, his eyes crinkling with silent laughter.

“But how did the warrior look?” Tayeraisa wondered. “For all but the Inyomere must finally pass from the world.”

“He was passing,” Lanyon agreed. “His flesh was ethereal—whole and smooth but possessing a lightness as if the substance of him was gradually leaving. I expect that some day he will vanish without ever being touched by decay.”

“Very pretty,” Pantheren said. “The Samokeäns have always been the cleverest of the people. But Bennek, you do not look well!”

“I am fine!”

The Snow Chanter frowned at him. “Pantheren is right. You should lie down and rest.”

“Do not fear the houses of the dead!” Pantheren advised him. “They are the houses of our ancestors, who can only wish us well. Even those neglected ghosts whose graves lie unmarked beneath the open sky do not bear us ill will.”

Chapter 13

They slept through the afternoon, so in the evening they were wakeful and full of questions for the Snow Chanter. How had she come to be in the ice? When had Siddél become her enemy? Why did the Inyomere of the Wild despise the people? Why had she loved Samoket?

She smiled. “Your questions are many! And still there are things you have not asked and do not understand. If you will, I will tell you a brief tale of the Wild. Some parts of this story you know, but others will be new to you, and when I am done you’ll have the answers to your questions, and to many you have not asked.”

Pantheren took out his red prayer banner so that he might work on it as she spoke. Bennek took out a precious needle and thread, to repair a small tear in his coat. Then they gathered together around the slow-burning fire and the Snow Chanter began her tale.

“Long ago, I invited the raging thunder storm into these mountains. We were akin, Siddél and I. I was the snow and winter’s cold. He was the storm. We would meet and play in the high mountains, both of us fascinated with land and air while knowing little of the living things of forest, plain and ocean. I think now this put us at a distance from our own kind, and led us to a fascination with the people, for you were like us, in the way you were drawn to the spirits of rock and metal and mountain.

“But in that time when the people first came to the shores of the Wild, all the Inyomere looked on you in dread. The unending building, the discipline of the farms, the uncountable babies born in any season, the endless hunting, and of the best stock, not the poorest! You seemed to us to be a plague that could consume all the Wild.

“So we drew together in counsel—the first time such a thing was ever done. Some among us were resolved that the people should be destroyed so the Wild could continue as it always had been, and Siddél was first among these. Some few of us protested that there must be a purpose to your existence. But most of the Inyomere abandoned the counsel saying, “Let fate fall as it may,” for that has always been our way.

“It is easy to say, ‘I will not do this thing.’ But among the Inyomere it is hardly possible to say ‘You will not do this thing.’ Those who heeded Siddél looked at the people and declared them weak, for you had not fangs, claws, horns, or the will of the Inyomere. You were prey. So it seemed an act of perfect balance that they should make a hunter, one that was ruthless and endowed with an instinct to consume only the people, and when the last person was gone from the Wild, the hunter would die away and all would be as it was.

“Vanity!

“The Inyomere did not make the Wild, or any of the life that inhabits it. Long ago, One came and wakened us, and the Wild was as it was, whole and beautiful. We lived within the uncounted seasons, nurturing the life of the valleys and mountains, the glades and the plains, the streams and the lakes and the shore. But none of that life was made by us. It had its existence just as we had ours, from the will of Another.

“Siddél would not accept this. ‘It is only that we have been content,’ he argued, ‘so that we were not moved to create something new and beautiful.’ He was wrong. What he finally made was not life. The arowl are abominations. Monsters twisted from the essence of natural creatures. They cannot make more of their own kind, but must always be made anew from the malice of Siddél.

“It was not long before even Siddél’s allies rued what had been done, for the arowl were maddened by their own abomination and their instinct was corrupt. In the absence of the people they fell upon the natural creatures of the Wild, killing even when they were not hungry. There is an agony in their nature eased only by the taste of blood. But Siddél was not abased by this horror. He set it aside and urged his pets south. The fate of the people seemed fixed... save that a vision came to Jahallon.

“I do not know what Inyomere sent him this warning, or if it was a gift from the One who wakened us all, but if not for Jahallon’s foresight the people might well have been overrun before they knew their peril.

“But even the first arowl were being forced into existence, Jahallon suffered a nightmare like none known to the people before. In his dream he watched horrid beasts assailing his friends, slaying them with teeth and claws. He called these beasts arowl after the great hue and cry they made as they attacked. The same nightmare came to him again and again, and all who knew of it called it a corrupt vision and warned him to put it from his mind, but he would not.

“It seemed to those who loved him that he was driven mad. Instead of building a homestead, he made a smithy, and instead of wooing a wife, he practiced at smelting long knives that he called swords, and great spears more brutal than the fishing spears the people had known. He persuaded the young men to spar with these things. Their elders did not approve, but the youth called it a sport and it was allowed. Jahallon also made a vast stock of great bows, and arrows so heavy they were of no use in hunting. His father grieved, believing he had lost his son to these evil dreams.

“Then in the third year after the people came to the Wild, the arowl packs reached the settled lands. The outlying farms were overrun and utterly destroyed—save where Jahallon’s companions had made their homes. In such places, the people’s swords and great bows brought terror to the arowl, which passed them by.

“In those days the city of Hallah had no fortifications. Many of the people were taken by surprise and slaughtered, but others remembered Jahallon’s vision, and when the arowl came, they rushed to grab staffs and pitchforks and hunting bows. Jahallon himself rallied his companions, and brought slaughter on the beasts that had been sent to slaughter them, and the people ever after have counted that day a victory, though many thousands were lost.

“That was the beginning of the Long War. Many years would pass before the arowl came again and in that time the people came to believe their first victory was final—but peace is not in the nature of Siddél, or of Jahallon.

“I am bound to these mountains and do not wander, but Siddél is not so constrained. He was moved by the bravery of the people and the cleverness of Jahallon and regretted making the arowl. So he went to Hallah to seek Jahallon, and he found him in his smithy.

“Siddél was entranced by the making of things within the heat of the forge, but Jahallon was wary, for the Inyomere of the Wild were not like the Inyomere he had known in his youth in Hahví, and he mistrusted Siddél.

“Siddél did not perceive this, for he had no understanding of the people. When Jahallon asked him how such abominable creatures as the arowl had come into the Wild, it did not occur to Siddél to dissemble. He answered Jahallon truthfully, for lies demand a complexity Siddél does not possess.

“So Jahallon heard from the monster himself the tale of the arowl, and rage possessed him. He seized his spear and sought to slay him, but Siddél is the storm. He drew that raiment about himself and fled with his wound.

“To Siddél, Jahallon’s rash act proved that the people were wanton and violent. All his hatred was renewed. He resolved to hunt the people until none remained in the Wild—but for Jahallon he reserved a special fate, pronounced that night in a curse Jahallon heard in his dreams, and the curse was that Jahallon would be endowed somewhat with the will of the Inyomere, so that he would be safe from death, though not from pain, and for that Jahallon has paid in grief and suffering far beyond the measure of any man.

“The Long War was renewed. The arowl came again, though this time they were armed with swords, spears, and bows, like the people. Terrible battles were fought, and the course of the war was ever unpredictable. Sometimes the arowl would not be seen for years and men would ride north and seek them, killing any they found. At other times the arowl would rise again in great packs and descend on the people.

“Hallah was fortified, and the other settlements as well. Then Jahallon led his people into the north. After Habaddon was founded, the battles grew fiercer, and there were not men enough to push deeper into the Wild. I dwell in the southern Tiyat-kel, which begins just north of the Glycian River, and still it was many years before any of the people dared to cross.

“But Samoket came to me at last. I sensed him as a stir, a flurry in the Expanse. His was a fiery soul. He had come north in defiance of his father, Jahallon. He came seeking metal ores, and he was alone. The arowl failed to slay him only because he had a talent to beguile their minds and send them fleeing in fear. He was the first of the people I ever beheld and he was beautiful—as all his people after him are beautiful—and he could touch my mind as if he were Inyomere, though he was not.

“Never before had I known anything like him. I was fascinated, and could not turn away. I changed myself to become what he desired, for carnality is not a trait of the Inyomere. Later, I changed myself further to bear him children. Forty-two beautiful babies I brought into the world! And oh! Siddél was madly jealous. For with my children I created life that was beautiful, balanced and true, while everything Siddél had ever made was malformed and wicked.

“Would that those years in the Citadel had gone on forever! It is the way of the Inyomere that the Wild continues on as it was, and is, and always will be. But it is the way of the people that all things change.

“The day came when Samoket abandoned me, crossing over to that place only the ghosts of the people have seen. I was confounded and so I retired to the high peaks, to think on all that I had learned of the people.

“Siddél found me there, when I was deep in thought and aware of naught but the soft falling of the snow. In his fearful imaginings, he had come to believe that I had lain with Samoket only to glean from him the people’s power to create life and he was sure I would use this knowledge against him.

“So he sought to destroy me. I am no petty Inyomere, and I may not be extinguished from the world. Still, he stunned me with his lightning and with his great sword he defiled my body so that I was broken. My blood drained away and I could not warm myself or resist him, but I refused to abandon my existence. So he took me and imprisoned me deep within the ice.

“He had tried to separate me from my flesh, and he had very nearly succeeded. My will still drove the snows, for the Inyomere are only the waking face of all aspects of the Wild. I am the snow and the cold of winter, and that will go on even if my awareness should fail. Awareness is a gift of the One, and it may be taken away, or returned at will to the Expanse.

“For many years I barely held on. I knew only a flickering existence until the snow leopard sensed me in the ice. She is an Inyomere without speech or name, but she has always been devoted to me. Though she could not rescue me from the ice, she led me back to myself. As I recovered my strength, I called for help from the rain, the wind, the birds that flew above the peaks in the summer, but none dared incur Siddél’s wrath, so they pretended not to hear. But Siddél knew I was awake.

“I am aware of much that has passed since my fall, because Siddél himself brought me the news. His thunder has raged over these peaks time and again, bringing me gloating word of his misdeeds in the Wild. So I know the Citadel is fallen, and that many of my children are slain... but not all.

“Now, finally, the children of Tayeraisa and Samoket have returned to the north, and by their valor, I live again in the Wild.”

~ Kesh ~

Chapter 14

On the next morning Pantheren was startled awake by the hum a bow makes when an arrow is released. Seizing his own bow and a quiver of arrows, he slipped in silence to the cottage door, opening it cautiously to peer outside.

Dawn was close. The eastern horizon was aglow with blue light that chased the stars away and glistened against the little caps of snow that dusted each plume of tall grass. He heard voices—no more than whispers—laughing together, and then the sound of the bow again, followed by the sharp whack of an arrow as it found a target of wood.

Stepping around the corner of the porch, he discovered Lanyon with a bow in hand, and beside her Bennek, giving advice, and though the light was dim Pantheren could not miss the admiration in her eyes.

Last night they had all sat in rapt silence until the Snow Chanter finished her tale, but afterward Marshal and Kit had made much of Bennek’s talent for confounding the arowl. “Blessed One, he is like Samoket in this,” Marshal had said. “He has this gift from our far father, that he may beguile and terrify the beasts.”

Kit had been as proud. “If my cousin had not been blessed with Samoket’s gift, we would not have won past the arowl. We would not have been able to come to you.”

But Bennek was not Samoket. He was not Édan. He was a boy, and it was foolish for Lanyon to see him as something more.

Kina was lying in the shadows. She saw Pantheren and thumped her tail. Bennek turned to look—and jumped in surprise when he realized Pantheren was standing there. Lanyon was so confounded she recoiled.

“Bennek, did you not hear me stir?”

“War Father, I confess I did not.”

“I was brought awake by the sound of arrows. Was it only a game?”

“No, sir. It seemed wise that Lanyon should try her bow and learn the feel of it before we set out.”

“Her bow?”

Lanyon recovered herself, bringing the weapon for him to see. “War Father, please don’t be angry. The bow was beside me when I woke. The Snow Chanter must have left it. Feel how light it is! It’s easy for me to draw.”

Pantheren felt the weight of it, and ran his hands along its length. In the faint light he could just make out the glint of prayers written in the wood. He handed it back to her.

“You’re not pleased?”

He shook his head. “This should have been Édan’s task, not yours. But we do what we can.”

~~~

The day began in warmth, with the snow melting quickly once the sun rose, but the season was late, and Pantheren worried that before long the weather would turn against them. “We must go quickly. Our best hope—maybe our only hope—is to find the Storm Lair before winter sets in.”

They looked for the Snow Chanter to tell her their decision, but they could not find her. No one had seen her since the evening. “Perhaps she has returned to the peaks,” Lanyon suggested, but Kit and Marshal and Bennek refused to believe it. “No doubt she has her own tasks,” Kit allowed, “but she’ll return again by the time we’re ready to depart.”

So they prepared their packs, fattening them with food from the cottage, taking all they could reasonably carry, and before long they were ready to leave. The Snow Chanter, though, still had not returned. Doubt descended on them. Should they wait? Clouds were already gathering in the sky, and still they were loath to go without saying goodbye. Then Bennek announced what no one wanted to hear, “There’s a small pack of arowl to the south. They are far away, and I don’t think they will find our trail. Still, it may be best if we go on while the arowl are few.”

“Bennek is right,” Pantheren said. “We must go while we can. The Snow Chanter has affirmed our task and knows our urgency. She will understand that it’s necessity, and not discourtesy, that has made us leave.”

So they shuttered the house and set out. At first they looked back hoping to see Tayeraisa appear on the porch, but before long the house was gone away, as if it had never been. “We will see her again,” Marshal said softly, though doubt was in his voice.

~~~

They mistrusted the open grasslands of the plains and chose instead to make their way north through the foothills, following a succession of meadows bounded by thickets and groves. The hills were low—it would have required only a few minutes to reach their summits—and many were crowned with toothy outcroppings of gray rock. It was a pretty landscape, aglow with autumn colors despite a heavy cloud cover. Even in the faded light the air remained warm and birds sang out in celebration.

A different mood was on Bennek. A sense of foreboding had come over him. He mistrusted the day and imagined he could feel the presence of arowl even as he walked with open eyes. After only half an hour he called out to Marshal. “I am uneasy. I would take a few minutes to see what lies around us.” Marshal agreed at once.

Bennek was gone several minutes in his trance. When he finally stirred, his young face was tight with concern. “We’re not alone here! I can scarcely believe it, but south of us are two warriors on horseback. They’re riding fast, for the arowl pack I saw before is snapping at their heels! Why they don’t turn and fight I cannot say. The beasts that pursue them are few in number—although there are were-beasts and a dire wolf among them.”

“They are likely wounded,” Pantheren said. “Remember the stampede of arowl we witnessed. These are surely desperate survivors of some battle to the south.”

Marshal turned to gaze in that direction. “We must go to their aid.”

“There is another thing,” Bennek added. “I tried to spread fear among the pack but they were distracted for only a moment. I don’t know what to make of it.”

Kit readied his bow. “I think once they taste blood, they’re not easily dissuaded.”

All agreed they must offer help to the two warriors so they turned back, and before long they heard the hue and cry of the pack. The bone-chilling wails guided them south and east toward the plain. Rounding a small hill, they came on a long meadow bounded in thickets and dense groves. It went on for half a mile before it spilled into the open plain. The arowl were not yet in sight, but the riders they saw at once, and to the surprise of everyone—Bennek most of all—there were three horsemen riding together, not two. Bennek was so astonished that Marshal had to tell him twice to fall back and take cover. “There were not three!” he insisted. “I swear it. I was among them and there were but two.”

“Did you also miscount the arowl?” Kit asked with scorn.

No one was reassured by the unaccustomed doubt on Bennek’s face.

Pantheren sent Lanyon up the hill, to shelter in a ridge of tumbled rocks that spilled down from the low summit. Marshal told Bennek to go with her, but at this Bennek bristled. “I mistook the count, but that doesn’t mean I cannot fight!”

“Do not dispute with me, Bennek! Do as I say and do it now. Go with Lanyon. Secure yourself. Affect the arowl if you can, but if not, you’ll have good vantage to use your bow. Kit and I will stay here among the trees. And Pantheren—” But Pantheren had already slipped away into the thickets, taking Kina with him.

~~~

Bennek followed after Lanyon, climbing up among the rocks until they found good cover. “You should get your bow ready,” he advised as scattered drops of rain began to fall. “I’ll leave the arrows between us.”

He set his back against a stone and sought the trance again, determined to understand his mistake.

But in a moment an anguished cry from Lanyon re-called him. “We are too late!”

He turned to look. The horsemen had escaped the plain. They were racing through the meadow, but already the arowl were among them. Two that ran like wolves bounded between the horses, yammering in bloodcurdling voices. White slashes marked their shoulders just like the dire wolves he’d seen, though these were of ordinary size—150 pounds, no more. Just behind them ran a tall were-beast. It was marked by white slashes on its cheeks.

Fat drops of rain soaked the rocks as Bennek braced himself against the expected sight of the beasts leaping to attack the warriors—yet seconds passed and it did not happen. Neither did the horsemen mount any defense. Not one of the three had a sword or a spear in hand. “They are not fleeing,” Bennek whispered in astonishment. “They ride with the arowl.”

Lanyon was unwilling to believe her own eyes. “This is not possible! The arowl cannot be tamed, or taught to forego the people’s blood.”

But as if to offer further proof, the lead horseman raised his hand, signaling his companions to halt. They pulled up just out of bow range, their horses dancing and shimmying in frantic effort to distance themselves from the arowl that circled them. The beasts growled and snapped, at the horses and at one other, but the riders ignored them.

Their leader was dressed in a dark gray coat with a hood pulled up against the drizzling rain. He spoke to his two companions. Neither wore hoods, so it was easy to see they were older men with weathered faces and graying hair that they wore in long braids, in the Samokeän style.

Bennek looked for the other arowl, but he could not see them, not even the dire wolf. He was sure that something was very wrong. Slipping below the rocks, he whispered, “Keep watch.” Then he turned in the Fourth Way.

At once he saw the two gray-haired riders poised on their trembling horses, luminous in the gravity of their existence; just as clearly he saw the three circling arowl, each one marked with white slashes; he saw the other beasts scattered in the thickets, with the dire wolf among them, and all these were marked with white slashes too; he saw Marshal’s bright presence, even as he crept in stealth through a dense grove, moving ever closer to the horsemen; he saw Kit not far behind; he saw Pantheren close to his own position in the rocks—but he could not see the hooded rider nor the horse he rode.

He retreated from the Mere. Lanyon was crouched beside him, her hand on his shoulder. “Bennek, why do you tremble?”

“He is a sorcerer! The hooded one. He’s hidden from me within the Mere just as you are, and all the arowl that accompany him are marked with white scars.”

“Should we kill him?” she asked as the rain pattered around them.

Bennek looked at her in shock. “He is of the people!”

“He rides with the arowl! He has marked them as his own. He has betrayed the people!”

Bennek shook his head, unwilling to speak of such things. “I must return to the Mere. The arowl are scattered, and we are vulnerable.”

~~~

Rain pattered all around as Marshal gazed past a screen of leaves and branches at the three riders. Their horses were frantic, eyes rolling with fear at the nearness of the arowl. He could not make out what the men said, but the two without hoods kept looking south, the way they had come. One got out his spear. Then Marshal understood their concern as a distant chorus of howls reached him across the still air. His heart beat faster. Soon they would have many more than ten arowl on their trail.

The tall were-beast also noticed the howling of the approaching pack. It drew from its belt the two crude swords it carried, even as it roared a challenge, baring its yellow fangs to the rain. The two wolfish beasts offered up their own howls—cries echoed at once by their pack mates hidden in the thickets. It was a chorus the horses could not endure. Two of them reared and the third bucked against the restraint of its bridle—and amid this chaos the spell of restraint that had held the arowl in check was broken.

The two wolfish arowl leaped together toward the hooded rider. There was a shouted warning—“Aidin!”—and a spear was cast, impaling an arowl in the ribs. Marshal launched his own arrow, piercing the second wolfish beast in the spinal cord. As the two arowl fell, the hooded rider—Aidin?—turned with a knife in his hand, and cast it at the were-beast, piercing its throat as it tried to leap on one of his companion’s horses.

At this affront, the seven arowl in the thickets threw off all restraint. The dire wolf plunged into the open, charging the horsemen while uttering a bloodcurdling howl. Two smaller beasts closed on Marshal’s position. The others picked up the intoxicating scent of prey from among the rocks and went leaping after it.

~~~

Bennek was entranced, his spirit-self at large within the Mere when chaos erupted among the arowl. Their blood-hunger had been held off by the will of the sorcerer, but no longer. They were maddened, and all restraints were gone. Bennek set loose a miasma of fear among the two arowl closest to Marshal’s position, but his efforts did nothing to deter their charge. Marshal met the first with his sword, but even as he sliced open its throat the other leaped on him, knocking him to the ground.

Bennek’s spirit-self followed the beast down. He descended so swiftly that he fell into its mind. Its seething rage engulfed him; he was immersed in the despair of its existence. Horror possessed him to know that such pain could abide in the world, but any pity he might have felt was extinguished as the arowl’s teeth slashed toward Marshal’s throat. Bennek forced his own horror outward, into its mind, and it recoiled. Its jaws snapped shut on empty air. At the same time Bennek sensed the searing passage of a violent spell. The beast’s heart was the target and it ignited with a fierce white flame. Marshal cried out, shoving the blazing carcass away just as Kit arrived with his sword swinging, to lop off its lifeless head.

~~~

Bennek returned to himself, wiping away the rain drops from his face. He heard the crackle of fire, the beat of horses’ hooves and in the distance a racket of howling and warbling and baying. “More arowl are coming!” Lanyon told him as she gripped his shoulder.

“Was it your fire spell?”

“No! It was the sorcerer’s!”

“His name is Aidin.”

“I have never heard that name. But he is skilled. He has destroyed all the arowl that came with him, even the dire wolf—”

“All of them?”

“I think so, but many more are coming. Maybe all those that were summoned south in the stampede. ”

Picking up his bow, Bennek turned to look out over the rocks. Despite the dribbling rain, fire was consuming the grove where Marshal had been hidden. A second circle of angry flames had ignited in a thicket just south of his position, and a third fire burned across the meadow. He could see no arowl. But the sorcerer and his two men were cantering toward their position, drawing closer with every stride. “Lanyon, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if they are friends or foes.”

She fitted an arrow to her bowstring. “I wonder how far away the talisman can be sensed?”

“You think that’s why they’ve come?”

“They are not here by chance.”

Bennek nodded. “I will protect you.”

His words were soft, almost lost within the patter of the rain. The oncoming riders could not have heard him—yet as Bennek spoke, the sorcerer looked up. Then he turned his horse and sent it crashing through the thickets and up the slope until he reached the foot of the rock outcropping where they were hidden. He called out in a wounded, raspy voice, “Lanyon! The beasts of Siddél come behind us. I called them off once before and lured them south. We killed many in your defense! But those that are left have tasted blood and will not give way. There is no time to be timid. We must draw together or none will live.”

Lanyon turned to Bennek in bewilderment. “He speaks of that day the arowl stampeded south—yet I know of no one named Aidin.”

“It must be he sees into your mind... or into mine?”

“Stand with me,” she pleaded. Bennek did not hesitate. They arose together, and both held their bows at full draw, arrows aimed at the sorcerer’s heart. Bennek tried to make out a face beneath the shadows cast by the sorcerer’s hood, but all he could see was the curve of a nose, and a rough complexion.

“Who are you that knows me?” Lanyon asked. “How is it you command the arowl?”

He sounded puzzled as he answered in his damaged voice, “Are you truly confounded?” Pulling back his hood, he exposed a face that must once have been beautiful but was now weathered and horribly scarred.

So great was Lanyon’s shock that her grip on the bow slipped. The arrow ricocheted against the wet rocks. At the same time she doubled over as if she had been hit in the gut. Bennek looked on her in astonishment as her face contorted. For a moment she did not seem able to breathe. Then she screamed. It was an incoherent noise, a protest of primal rage and terror; the same scream his mother had uttered when she fell to the arowl. Heat rushed through him as thunder rumbled in the distance. “Lanyon.”

She fled, scrambling into the rocks. She had her bow in hand and the talisman in its new case across her back. Bennek started after her. But then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Aidin turn his horse to give chase around the hillside and suddenly he knew what he must do.

He could not shoot the sorcerer. The people did not slay the people. So instead he leaped from the rocks with his bow in hand, launching himself at the sorcerer’s back. Warning cries went up from the two warriors, but there was no time for Aidin to make a defense. Bennek struck him with force enough to knock him from the saddle... but in the air they were turned around and Bennek hit the ground first.

Time skipped.

Next he knew Kit was beside him, breathing hard and shaking his shoulder. “Bennek! Bennek, wake up! I know you are not dead. I think the sorcerer stunned you.”

Bennek blinked against the rain that dribbled in his eyes. Rain was falling, but it had not put out the fires yet. “Where did he go?” Dry weeds burned mere steps away. Heat billowed over him, contrasting sharply with the cold splashes of rain. The flames spoke in a low, rushing, sizzling voice that did nothing to disguise a chorus of yammering howls resounding against the rocks.

“Come on!” Kit urged, hauling Bennek to a sitting position. “Get up. Clear your head. You must use Samoket’s gift. The arowl are upon us and Marshal is alone among the trees.”

“But the sorcerer... he knew Lanyon—”

“Do it now, Bennek, before the arowl find him.”

The smoky flames were creeping closer as Bennek closed his eyes. He had hardly brushed the Mere when he said to Kit, “There is one stalking us a few steps behind you.” He felt Kit move away, but he did not look.

He turned in the Fourth Way. His awareness leaped outward. At once he perceived Marshal, and it was as Kit said, he was alone within a grove of young trees that grew so close together there was hardly room for him to slip between them—but the arowl that pursued him were hampered too. Marshal was able to hold them off with just a knife, but he was surrounded. It wouldn’t be long before the arowl grew bold and closed in.

Bennek came among them. He was a ghost, bearing the rage of the people. The arowl felt his anger and quailed. Their excited baying transformed to fearful yips and uncertain whines. They fell back, leaving Marshal free for precious seconds. He slipped out of the grove and raced toward the rocks. But as he ran, another pack coming in from the east caught sight of him. Bennek haunted these next, sending his will among them, and they too fell back.

“Wake up!” Kit screamed.

Bennek felt himself hauled by his armpits. He returned from the Mere to find flames licking his boots, and fire dancing in smoky spirals in the brush. “Where’s my bow?” He hunted for it, and almost stumbled over the small arowl Kit had just killed.

Kit found his bow first and handed it to him. “Where is Marshal?”

“You didn’t see him?”

“No.”

“He was running this way. He must have gone around the rocks.”

“Come on, then,” Kit said. “We’ll find him when we climb up. Hurry. If this rain keeps up, the fires will be put out, and then nothing will stand between us and the arowl.”

Chapter 15

Lanyon had looked on the face of a dead man and panicked. It was not the sorcerer Aidin’s scarred and weathered face that sent her fleeing into the rocks. There was no Aidin. Aidin was a lie. The sorcerer behind the disfiguring scars was Édan—her lover; her husband—137 years dead—a ghost made flesh. He could not still be within the world. He could not.

And yet, hadn’t the mist warned her it was so? Days ago along the riverbank the mist had whispered her haunting message. He is coming. He is coming. Of course it was Édan she’d warned against and not Pantheren at all.

And still it made no sense.

Lanyon fled into the rocks where the horses could not follow. She had no plan; no destination. Her mind was in tumult. How could Édan still be alive? And more improbable still, why would he choose to ride with the arowl—Siddél’s hated beasts—that had killed his father and his grandfather? Édan had spent his life crusading against the blasphemy of the arowl’s existence. He had used his sorcery to turn them against each other, and he had burned the pits where they were made.

He had believed he could defeat Siddél.

He had used the fire spell to slaughter such beasts as those he now brought with him. Why?

More arowl were coming—many, many more—she heard their hue and cry as she ran and she knew she could never outrun them all.

Reason tried to reassert itself. She should stop and summon a spell of hiding... but there was no time. Édan, though, might be able to defeat these arowl, if he had the help of Pantheren, Marshal, Kit, Bennek, and his own two men.

But she kept going. She knew why he had come. She knew what he wanted. And despite all, she was unwilling to let him have it. Pantheren had said it was Édan’s task to slay Siddél, but Pantheren did not know what had happened that night.

Lanyon knew, but she had not told it all, not to Jahallon or to Pantheren or to anyone because Édan was dead and the truth did not matter anymore. It did not matter because Édan was dead.

Through a thin veil of rain, she glimpsed him in the rocks below. He had abandoned his horse to climb the rough terrain. He saw her and called out to her, “Lanyon, stop!”

She ducked past a wall of rock, to find herself in a damp, grassy hollow just below the hilltop.

What had he become?

What had he been?

It was not his task anymore.

Her bow was strung. She had only one arrow, but that one was enough.

Quickly, she unstrapped the talisman and removed it from its case. She set it to the bowstring just as he came around the rocks. “Stop!” she told him. “Come no closer.”

“Lanyon!”

She did not draw the bow, but held it poised in her hands. “What are you? Who are you?”

“You know me, Lanyon.”

“No! Édan is dead. I saw him die.”

“You mistook it! I should have died, but Siddél would not allow it.”

“What did the monster do? Slip a fragment of his soul inside you? You must be his creation now.”

“What madness is on you, Lanyon, to speak to me thus? Would you say such words to Jahallon? You cannot imagine what I have endured!”

She raised the bow, and drew it. “Do not tell it to me! I do not care.”

His astonishment was plain to see, but it became dismay when he saw what arrow she had aimed at his heart. “Yes,” Lanyon told him. “It’s a wicked thing, and I guided its flight, when it killed you once before.”

Then he thought he understood her. “You think I want revenge. Lanyon, it is not so. I know what happened that night. It was not your fault. You only did as I told you. In the smoke and the darkness there was no way for you to know. Be at peace.”

“Be at peace? Do you think I have forgotten what you did that night?”

“I gave up all that I love! For the good of the people; to end this war; to bring down Siddél.”

“Ashes!” she cried. “It is all ashes. Our children are dead for your vanity Édan, and all those others who were slaughtered when the Citadel was broken. You thought it was given to you to destroy the monster, so you summoned him. You prepared the way. Jahallon told me there was no guard on the wall. There was no one on watch. No one to give us warning when—”

A deafening thunderclap resounded above them and she recoiled. The smattering rain became a torrent whipped sideways by a sudden gale, while out of the clouds a monstrous voice roared, “What trickster has deceived my arowl?”

Even as Lanyon shrank against the meager shelter of the rock wall, her astonished gaze turned skyward to see the Inyomere Siddél. He was suspended above the hilltop amid a swirl of black clouds: a great, glowering, man-like form that bent low to search the land below. Lightning crackled along his limbs and his hair burned with blue flame. “Who dares to trespass in the guarded lands?”

In her mind, Édan was forgotten. Siddél was all. It was more than chance that he should come down from his cloud fields now, at a moment when she had the talisman nocked and ready in her bow. She raised her aim skyward, picking out the spell’s path through the Mere—but even as she let the arrow fly, Édan was beside her, his hands on the bow, wrenching it down. The spell skewed from its path, and the cursed arrow spun uselessly away over the rocks.

Lanyon watched it go and all hope left her. Against the wind and the drumming rain her voice rose in a wail of despair; and in her lamentation she cried out, “What have you done? What have you done?”

Édan answered her, though she did not understand the meaning of his words, “You have taken enough from me already. It is not for you to become the storm!”

Siddél espied them. He cried out, “Édan the trickster thief! Did I not leave you imprisoned in Nendaganon? And so you should be still! And will!”

Édan looked on the Inyomere with a malice Lanyon had never witnessed in him before, but his hatred could not protect him. Lightning leaped from Siddél’s monstrous hand. It struck Édan in the chest with such force that he was lifted off his feet and thrown limp against the rocks on the other side of the hollow.

Siddél descended to the ground. Lanyon huddled against the stone, a scant arm’s reach from the Inyomere of black cloud and fire, standing three times the height of a man. Lightning danced on his brow as he scowled at her, but when he spoke his voice was gentle, “Petty spirit! Do not allow Édan the Trickster to beguile you. There is no place for the people in the Wild.”

Édan stirred weakly and a moan escaped him. Siddél heard it and leaped on him. The monster landed on Édan’s chest with such force that Lanyon heard bones snap. Blood gushed into Édan’s mouth and streamed from his nose and eyes. Siddél saw it and laughed. “Back to the pits,” he said, “where you will stay until this war is ended.”

He bent to pick up Édan’s broken body, but at that moment an arrow hissed from the rocks overhead. It struck the monster in the back just below the shoulder blade, reaching deep to where his heart should be. Siddél roared and leaped into the clouds as a second arrow followed after the first.

Pantheren appeared at the top of the rock wall above Lanyon’s head. Drawing his bow, he sent a third arrow up into the clouds to convince Siddél he was not safe even there, and at this the wounded Inyomere turned and fled.

With his departure, the wind calmed and the rain eased to an uncertain patter, but the changing weather brought no comfort, for now the cries of the arowl pack could be clearly heard, and they were close and joyous.

Pantheren jumped down from the rocks. He glanced at Lanyon, assuring himself she was unharmed. Then he went to gaze at Édan’s crushed body, and Lanyon too went to look.

Édan was dead. She could not doubt it. Blood was pooled in his mouth and in the hollows of his eyes and no breath stirred on his lips—and yet his skin was not burnt from the lightning, nor was his chest crushed—and this seemed strange to her.

Just then Bennek called to her from the rocks below. “Lanyon!”

It was a relief and a joy to know he still lived. She turned to meet him. “Bennek! We are here!”

He came running with Kina at his heels and Marshal and Kit just behind. “Lanyon! Are you all right? We saw the terrible storm and—” He stumbled over Édan’s body. He stared at it in shock, and then he looked at her with some uncertainty. “Did you... ?”

“No. It was Siddél.”

“Speak, Lanyon,” Pantheren said. “What has happened here?”

She nudged Édan’s body with the toe of her shoe to be sure. “A monster has slain a monster.”

“You speak thus? But I heard Siddél name him! Was the Inyomere mistaken? Or is this Édan?”

“It is him. Now I have seen him die twice.”

“And grieved once? Or not at all?”

“Not for him! Not then. Not now. He has doomed us, just as he did in the Citadel. He wrecked my shot! He allowed Siddél to live and now the fatal arrow is lost and all the arowl of Samokea come to feed on us.”

Marshal stepped past Bennek. He was flush with exertion and bloodstains glistened on his coat. “I do not understand how this could be Édan, and there is no time now to make it out, but take heart! We are not alone. I have seen a company of men on horseback. They pursue the arowl and harry them, keeping them in doubt.”

Pantheren went to look, and it was just as Marshal described. Through the thinning skeins of smoke five men on horseback could be seen engaged in a running battle with at least fifteen arowl. “These are men of Habaddon!” Pantheren told them. “That is Jakurian, and beside him, Bahir. Perhaps Jahallon knew of this gathering of arowl and sent a company to support us—but now they are hard pressed.”

A volley of arrows flew forth from a copse of young trees and several of the pursuing arowl fell. But the were-beasts of Siddél had taken a position in the thickets and they launched their own flight of arrows in answer. Many of these went wild, but at least one found its target, for a man was tumbled from his horse. The horse fled into the trees, but one of the warriors turned back, took up his fallen companion, and raced away as more arrows hissed around them. All the while, the lamentations of a hundred or more arowl reverberated in the thickets and trees to the south of the hill.

“Do we help them?” Kit asked as he gazed anxiously down at the battle. “Or do we abandon these men and go on while the attention of the arowl is turned from us?”

Lanyon said, “We cannot go on. The talisman is lost and we can’t leave here until it’s found again.”

Kit was relieved. “I like our chances better anyway if we slaughter these arowl now, then if we let them hunt us later... although my arrows are nearly gone.”

“Take half of mine,” Pantheren said. “Lanyon, you must come with us until we find some defensible place—”

“I will follow when I have found the talisman.”

“I cannot leave you here undefended.”

“Then leave someone with me. War Father, we cannot risk some were-beast finding it, or one of those warriors who rode here with Édan.”

Bennek stepped forward. “I will help you find it.”

But Marshal objected. “Bennek, the arowl are many and your talents are better used in the battle below. Go with Kit and Pantheren. I’ll stay with Lanyon, and when we have found the arrow, we’ll join you.”

Pantheren was not pleased, but time was short. “Stay hidden,” he warned them. “And we will do all we can to keep the arowl from this hill.” Then he called softly to Kina and set off, with Kit close behind.

Bennek lingered a little longer. To Marshal he said, “The two who rode with”—his uneasy gaze turned to the corpse—“with him... they retreated north when Siddél came, but now they make their way back.”

“We will be wary,” Marshal assured him.

Bennek looked at Lanyon. “I’m sorry I did not stop him from following you. It was enough that you feared him. I should not have shown him any mercy.”

“Bennek, it’s never wrong to listen to your heart.”

He shook his head. “My heart is confused.” Then he was away, bounding down the hill after Pantheren.

~~~

The arowl on the slope did not suspect an attack from above and were caught unaware. Several fell at the first volley of arrows, and the rest fled toward the trees, but they found no sanctuary. The men of Habaddon held positions in the groves and the arowl were met by a new onslaught of arrows, and were swiftly cut down... yet these were only a forward party. By far the greater number bided in the forest to the south, crying out in their hunger and their despair.

Still, a respite had been won, and the warrior Jakurian used this time to ride out to greet Pantheren, and to meet Kit and Bennek. Jakurian was the youngest child of Jahallon and his latest wife, Nurea of Clan Samoket. He was no youth, though. He had counted thirty-two years in the world, almost half of those on the battlefield. It was said that Jakurian closely resembled his long-ago brother, Samoket, though Samoket had been a grim man, while Jakurian was well-loved for his sunny nature. Despite the hardships of the day, he met Pantheren with a grin. “Pantheren! My teacher and my captain! It’s a joy to meet you in this unmapped land.”

“Though not all unexpected?” Pantheren asked him as they clasped hands. Rain was again falling in a slow but steady drizzle.

“You were expected in Habaddon. When you did not come, we set out to find you. We heard of a fire near the River Talahnon and we went to look. We feared you had been persuaded to try for Ohtangia—”

“You thought me bewitched?” Pantheren asked with some amusement.

Jakurian shrugged. “We feared you had been waylaid. And indeed we found the remains of a battle. But as we looked north from that burnt hilltop we saw in the distance three men on horseback, and running with them a pack of arowl! We could hardly believe our eyes. I sent two men back to Habaddon with the news.”

“And then you followed these strangers?”

“Did we have a choice? What sort of men would ally themselves with arowl? And yet the beasts are their enemies too.” He gestured to the south. “This great pack was once even larger, but these men contrived to use fire against it. They killed many, while passing through the horde unscathed. I cannot say the same for my own company. We have lost two men.”

“I am sorry for it.”

“At least we have found you... though I don’t understand why you are here, so deep in Samokea.”

Pantheren answered this sharply, “I go where my duty takes me.”

“I meant no censure—”

“And you have come too late to collect your quarry. I think there was only one among the three who could command the beasts. He was called Aidin by his men—”

“Aidin... ? I have heard that name.”

“I’ve heard it too,” Pantheren said. “Some years ago Jahallon sent an emissary to a new settlement in Ohtangia—”

“—a settlement founded by Aidin of Clan Samoket,” Jakurian finished for him. “I remember it. But there was a mystery to it. No emissary since has found the way back to Aidin’s fort, and it’s rumored he is a sorcerer...”

Pantheren said, “If it’s the same man, there is no doubt of that. His tale is strange and bitter, but he is dead now. Siddél has seen to it. The monster came this day to assert that no one should command the arowl but him.”

Jakurian shook his head in wonder. “Siddél! I heard his thunder, though I thought he only celebrated this great gathering of beasts. But what of the woman, Lanyon Kyramanthes? Is she still with you?”

“Should I have gone on without her? She is here, and so far she is safe, but this day is full of peril.”

“That I well know.” Jakurian’s gaze touched curiously on Kit and Bennek. “Ah, War Father, how I long to hear all your story, not least how you gathered an army in an empty land, but these arowl are unlikely to be so patient.”

“We need to kill them,” Pantheren agreed. “All of them. Our journey has just begun and I do not want these beasts howling down our trail.”

~~~

Lanyon stood again in the precise place she’d been when she aimed the talisman at Siddél. She recalled how it had looked soaring out of sight over the rocks. She described its path to Marshal, and together they went to look.

Marshal searched the rain-soaked thickets, looking for the gleam of steel, but Lanyon focused her thought on the Mere. Her vision did not reach far within the spirit-world, but even so she sensed the presence of not one, but two dire spells. The talisman she knew, for she was accustomed to its presence, but the second spell was unknown to her. It was dark and dreadful, a great spirit-beast bearing a terrible gravity that would surely crush her if she dared disturb it. It did not want to be disturbed. It pushed at her, forcing her to look away and she complied at once. Perhaps this wicked spell had a name, but she could not hear it. She didn’t want to know it. She fled from the Mere, shuddering as she opened her eyes on the gloomy shadows gathered beneath the thicket.

She tried to forget what she had seen. “Marshal?”

His search had taken him farther down the hill. When he returned she told him, “Let’s look around here. The talisman is very close.” She let herself be guided by the lure of its wicked presence, but it was Marshal who found it, buried in the soggy leaf litter. Lanyon took it and wiped it clean with the wet hem of her coat. Both she and Marshal were soaked through to the skin and Lanyon’s fingers were pale and shriveled, but there was nothing to be done for it. “Would that we could summon Siddél again,” she said in bitterness.

Marshal answered with quiet confidence, “We will find him at the Storm Lair, if we do not find him first along the way.”

They returned the talisman to the case the Snow Chanter had made for it. Marshal gave her two of his arrows so she could make a defense if the arowl discovered them. Then they set out to find their companions.

They had not gone far through the thickets when they heard a crackling, crunching noise as of some large and thoughtless creature moving against the brittle branches—and then they heard the snort of a horse. Both dropped to a crouch behind a screen of twigs.

Higher on the slope, three horses were tied up where the thicket gave way to grass. One neighed a soft greeting as the two gray haired warriors came into view. They were making a swift but careful retreat from the hilltop, carrying between them the limp and bloody corpse of Édan.

When they reached the horses, one took over the task of holding Édan’s body while the other climbed into the saddle. The horse was unsettled by the scent of so much blood. The rider spoke to it soothingly as he bent low to help his companion lift Édan into the saddle. As soon as he had Édan’s body cradled in his arms, he set out. The second man fetched the other two horses and, mounting one, he followed after his companion.

But as they made their way down the hill Lanyon saw Édan’s head turn—and though that motion might have been caused by the jolting stride of the horse, she could make no such excuse for the sudden, darting movement of his eyes as he looked directly at her, nor could she explain the way his hand rose on its own to grip the horse’s mane.

Chapter 16

Jakurian’s company had set out with fourteen men, but of these, two had been sent back to Habaddon and two had since been taken by the arowl. Two more were wounded and could no longer fight from horseback. These were sent with Kit and Bennek to make a stand in the rocks overlooking the meadow.

Pantheren accepted one of the riderless horses, and with nine men in the saddle, several skirmishes were fought in the meadow and among the burnt thickets while the rain persisted in a half-hearted drizzle. Bennek and Kit watched the fighting with rapt attention for it was the first time they had seen combat from horseback. Even so, Bennek slipped at times into the Mere, and before long he was able to tell Kit that Marshal was returning. “Then they have found it,” Kit said, and he went up into the rocks to meet them and show them the way down.

Lanyon went at once to Bennek. “Did you watch the two who rode with the sorcerer? Do you know where they went?”

“To the hilltop. They lifted up his body and took it away.”

“You could see him?” she asked in astonishment. “Even though he was dead?”

“I could,” Bennek realized. “He was no longer hidden in his glamour. But... if his spirit was gone, what was I seeing?”

Lanyon looked panicky. “Where did they go, Bennek? Do you know?”

“They are riding east, as swiftly as they may. I think it’s their goal to escape before the arowl take notice.”

Nodding, she turned to look out on the meadow. There she saw the horsemen of Jakurian’s company, but not a single arowl, though the air was filled with the mewling, growling and barking of their discontent. “Where are the beasts?”

“They hide within the trees.” This answer came from the Habaddon man whose name was Bahir. The arrow that had knocked him from his horse had left his shoulder badly torn. His right arm was bound against his chest, and the pain of his wound could be read in his face, but he gripped a sword in his left hand and kept a close watch on the land all around. “They don’t lack for numbers, but they are exhausted by their run north, and chastened at their losses.”

“Surely their hunger will overcome their fear?”

“When they are rested.”

Kit was anxious to get back in the fight. “We can’t allow them to rest. We’ll have to go in after them and hunt them one by one.”

“They are too many to pursue on foot,” Bahir said. “Once among the trees they would overwhelm us. We must draw them out.”

“If it comes to it, we can wait till nightfall,” Bennek suggested. “After dark they will be slow.”

Marshal shook his head. “Even so, they are many, and our count of arrows is low. It would be close-combat the night long, and the weather is against us.”

The second Habaddon man was Kaliel. He was feverish from the rending bite of a were-wolf that had torn his calf and thigh, but he still held a position with bow in hand, gazing out over the meadow. “Pantheren comes,” he announced, “with Jakurian behind him. I think a decision has been made.”

The two men cantered their horses up to the burnt thicket at the base of the rock outcropping. “Bennek!” Pantheren called out.

Bennek leaned over the edge, hoping they had some interesting task for him.

“Bennek, we grow weary of waiting for the beasts to find their nerve. I would have you use Samoket’s gift to bewitch them, as I have heard you can do these many days—”

Bennek started to protest. It was fear that kept the arowl hidden. To panic them further would only drive them off and delay the battle for hours until the beasts’ hunger brought them back again.

But before Bennek could speak these objections, Pantheren raised a hand for patience. “I would have you bewitch them with a different spirit. Can you kindle a fire in their corrupt hearts that will embolden them? Is that something you can do? Feed their hunger? Persuade them to take the field?”

Bennek felt all eyes on him, but in particular he felt the weight of Jakurian’s doubtful gaze, so he took care to answer in a clear voice. “I do not know, sir. I have never before had need to make the arowl more fierce.”

“Will you try?” Pantheren pressed.

Bennek looked to Marshal for approval and received a quick nod. “I will try, sir.”

“Good! But that is not all I ask of you. When the arowl are on the field, when they have come out to menace us, I want them confounded. Let them know your wrath. Let fear take them. Can you do that?”

“Sir, that is an easy thing though it will take time”—he glanced uneasily at Marshal, but went on anyway—“and all the time I work this trick I cannot hunt. I will make no kills.”

“The kills we make will be in your name.”

“That is not the same, sir.”

Jakurian grinned, but Pantheren was not pleased. “Bennek. We are all weary, wet, and cold, and we must finish this battle quickly. Each of us must serve as he is best suited and only you can confound the arowl.”

“He’ll do it,” Marshal said, looking down to where the two captains sat their horses.

Bennek argued no more. “As you wish, sir. Make ready.” He dropped behind the rocks, feeling gloomy at his lot.

Kit crouched by his side. “Can you do this thing?”

Bennek was wondering the same. “I don’t know. I don’t possess a blood hunger. So how can I call this desire from among the arowl?”

“You’re not much acquainted with fear or panic either,” Marshal pointed out, “but you lead the arowl to them easily enough. Just do it, Bennek. You know you can.”

Still thinking on it, Bennek settled down with his back against the wet stone. His spear he placed at his right hand and his bow he laid at his left, so that he would be ready if the arowl overran the rocks.

“I will watch over you,” Marshal promised.

“You may become distracted.” It was then he noticed Bahir and Kaliel, and the wary way they watched him.

“Are you a sorcerer?” Bahir asked.

“He has a talent that has come down to him from Samoket,” Marshal said quickly. “But that is all.” Bennek heard the caution in his voice and wondered at it, but Marshal left no time for questions. “Make ready, Bennek. The men of Habaddon are waiting.”

He nodded, and closing his eyes, he turned in the Fourth Way.

~~~

The transformation had its start in the trees closest to the rock outcropping. There the restive, mewling chatter of the arowl changed abruptly to a blood-thirsty howl. The barbarous song spread through the forest until it seemed the trees themselves did waken and howl.

The horsemen had stationed themselves far out on the meadow. With his men, Jakurian witnessed the change, and all were amazed. “Pantheren, it’s exactly as you commanded.”

Pantheren drew his sword as the men took their places for the charge. “Take heed,” he said softly to Jakurian. “This is the same skill Édan possessed when he captained the armies of Samokea.”

A sudden flood of brown and black was seen beneath the trees. Jakurian stood in his stirrups and shouted to his men. “Make ready! Battle is upon us!” Kina, who had been waiting patiently among the horses, threw back her head and offered up her own joyous howl.

The arowl swarmed into the open. They were perhaps ninety in number, but they ran as one in their lust for the blood of men and horses.

“Stand firm,” Jakurian warned. “Stand firm...” He waited until the pack was well clear of the trees. “Ride now! Surround them!”

The horsemen split into two lines, forming a crescent to hem in the pack and drive it toward the rocks. Arrows flew, and howls of rage erupted from the arowl as they bore down on the horses.

“Now Bennek!” Pantheren bellowed above the chaos. “Turn them now!”

Hardly had his voice died away when the pack’s battle-fury peeled away. One by one, each beast remembered its weariness. The intoxicating blood hunger that had driven them from the trees became a crippling emptiness in the gut. The were-wolves shrieked their despair, the were-bears lowed, and the four-footed arowl mewed and cried.

Those that were closest to the trees tried to retreat back to that refuge, but most fled toward the rocks. It did not avail them. The horsemen rode them down, tending grimly to the slaughter, while those arowl that escaped the horses were greeted with a hail of arrows from the rocks.

~~~

Bennek was gone, deep into the Mere. Never before had it fallen to him to beguile so many arowl, and to confound their minds first one way and then another. There were too many for him to work his will on all at once, so he went from one to the next to the next until he forgot himself, and for a time it seemed to him that he had always been an ethereal creature of menace and doom haunting the meadow and the open plain. He did not remember to look behind him in the foothills.

It happened that a small pack of arowl had wandered beyond the hill, following the trail of Édan’s men, but when the howls of blood-hunger arose from the meadow they turned back. They were only six in number, but two were great dire wolves, larger than horses, and no one knew they were on the hill.

~~~

Kina caught the scent first. With the rain still falling, she left the meadow, bounding through the wet ashes of the burnt thicket before leaping into the rocks, startling both Marshal and Kaliel. They had taken positions on either side of Bennek, who still sat with his back against the stone, his youthful face fixed in an expression of deep concentration.

“Kina!” Marshal shouted. “What—” He saw movement above them. “Kit! Kaliel! Lanyon! Behind us! Bennek—wake now!” He shook Bennek hard by the shoulder, but he did not stay to see if he was roused, for on the rocks above there came leaping a great dire wolf. It was the very same beast they had seen on the plain three days before, with white slashes on its shoulders, a wound at its neck, and a length of chain swinging from its collar. Marshal pulled his sword and raced to meet it, leaving the others to defend against the smaller members of the pack.

These charged in first around the rocks, and suddenly, the arowl were among them.

Lanyon spent her last arrow against a horned were-beast that answered her assault with a swinging sword. She ducked the whooshing blade and retreated into the rocks, using the seconds to summon the fire spell, but Kit was faster. He hammered his sword against the back of the were-beast’s neck. It collapsed, just as the white-hot spell ignited in its heart.

Kaliel too was out of arrows. Blood loss and fever had sapped his strength and still he met the onslaught of two tracking arowl, fending them off with his spear.

Bahir was backed up against a rock in a desperate one-handed contest with a clawed beast whose wide jaws were filled with needle teeth.

Kina was first to reach the dire wolf. With a ferocious snarl she threw herself at its wounded throat, tearing fur and flesh. As soon as she leaped away Marshal attacked, thrusting his sword up and into the wolf’s throat just in front of the collar. He moved nimbly aside as a fountain of blood showered the rocks. The wolf staggered for several steps. Then it collapsed in a thrashing heap.

The second wolf leaped over it. Like its fallen pack mate, this one also wore a collar, but its coat was night-black—a stark contrast to the white slashes that scarred its shoulders. It landed on the rocks above the fray. Scant seconds had passed since the melee began. Bennek was just coming out of his trance. He looked up, to see the dire wolf glowering down at him.

“Bennek run!” Marshal screamed.

There was no time. Bennek seized his spear just as the dire wolf leaped, but he was only halfway to his feet when the wolf impaled itself on the upraised blade. The spearhead disappeared into its chest, but the shaft kicked back against rock and snapped. Bennek was thrown off-balance. He fell back. His heel caught among the stones as the weight of the wolf slammed against him. There was not even time to be afraid.

The dire wolf heard the sound of bone breaking. It felt its prey go limp. The triumph of its hunger drove away all awareness of its own wound and it opened its jaws to rend its prey with massive fangs—until a white-hot pain ignited in its throat. It reared back, and fire billowed from its open maw. The wolf went berserk. It plunged witlessly about in the narrow space between the rocks, shaking its head and biting at stone in a frantic effort to fight back against an attacker it could not reach. Bahir retreated into the rocks. Kaliel was almost trammeled. Then Kit stepped in. He plunged his sword into the dire wolf’s side, sinking it to its hilt, and the tormented beast collapsed.

Chapter 17

Marshal bounded down from the rocks, skirting the mountainous carcass of the dire wolf to reach his brother. Kit was there before him. He looked at Marshal with tearful eyes. Lanyon was crouched at Bennek’s other side. She was weeping, and Marshal thought the sound of it would rend his heart.

Bennek was a crumpled thing. He lay draped over the rock, his waxen face turned to the rain. His eyes were half-open, focused on nothing, though every few seconds he blinked. Scarlet blood dripped from his nose and the corner of his mouth. More blood soaked his trousers just where his leg bent at an impossible angle above the right knee so that Marshal knew the bone was badly broken.

He wanted to speak to Kit, for he had never seen such injuries before and had no knowledge of what to do, but Kit had turned away, standing with hunched shoulders and a hand over his eyes. The Habaddon warrior, Bahir, whose arm was bound up in a sling, saw Marshal’s distress. He told Marshal, “Speak to your brother. Give him the comfort of your presence, but don’t move him yet.”

Then Bahir went to Lanyon and he urged her to rise up and come away, “It does him no good to hear your despair.”

So Marshal was left alone with Bennek. He crouched beside him and gently he touched his cheek. “Bennek? Bennek do you hear me?”

Bennek’s chin moved in the slightest of nods, but he didn’t speak or shift his gaze.

“We’ll take care of you, Bennek. We’ll keep you safe.”

Pantheren came climbing up from the meadow—“Let me see him”—and Marshal moved aside.

He gazed at the field below and was astonished to realize the battle was ended. Arowl carcasses were strewn across the muddy grass. Men moved among them, assuring that all were truly dead. One of the Habaddon men lay wounded, but Jakurian was tending him.

Pantheren examined Bennek with gentle fingers, probing the back of his skull, his chest, and his arms. “I saw him fall,” he said, re-calling Marshal’s attention. “He suffered a harsh blow to the head. Only time will tell the cost of that. And some of his ribs are broken, though I think his lungs were spared.” Then Pantheren cut open Bennek’s trouser leg and folded back the cloth. Deep within the torn flesh Marshal saw the white gleam of bone. A hot flush of fear erupted across his skin. Already the leg was beginning to swell.

Pantheren looked up at him. “Get a blanket and lay it on the ground. There’s room enough here to work. You’ll help me wash his wound and set his leg. Then I’ll teach you how to sew up his torn flesh.” He barked out orders to the men on the field. “Sanno! This warrior cannot ride. I’ll need you to make a litter. Fen, you will get me a splint. Kit!”

Kit came, his cheeks wet with tears.

“Take the gray horse I was using and go back to Kesh. See if that house is still open to us. Take Lanyon with you—”

He turned to look for her, but Bahir had taken her away into the rocks. Pantheren went after them, and found her still weeping. Bahir shook his head. “This day has been too much for her.”

“And still it is not done yet.” Pantheren knelt beside her. “Lanyon, put aside your despair. Bennek yet lives and there is much you can do for him and these other men.”

She looked up at him, and through her tears she asked in bitterness, “Do you trust me to do it? For all that I touch and all that I love soon turns to ashes.”

“Do not think on it. You are a Kyramanthes woman. Your mother has taught you the ways of war and how to tend the wounded and I need your help now. So save your tears, and pray that the Snow Chanter will give us shelter again this night.”

~~~

Of all the descendants of Jahallon-the-Undying, the people of Kyramanthes had been most affected by the curse of Siddél. Their heritage had given them many talents of the Inyomere, but it had also burdened them with Siddél’s fiery nature, so that they were ever a rash and passionate people who gave little heed to danger, and who loved the Wild as the Inyomere do and could not bear to be parted from it. It was their choice to live within tents whenever they could, and being few in the vastness of Ohtangia, it became their habit to move often from one valley to another, for they were at home everywhere in that land. But by necessity they had been builders too, and they made many fortresses to which they could retreat when the arowl came marauding.

The men were often away at war, so from an early age each girl was taught not only to read the histories and write the prayers, to farm and fish, and to cook and sew, but also to handle horses, to shoot a bow in hunting and in defense, and to tend the wounded. Lanyon had learned some of the healer’s arts from her mother, and more from Jahallon when she dwelled in his house. So she went with Kit on the sweat-stained gray horse to prepare for the wounded who would follow.

A misty rain was falling. The afternoon had gone soft and quiet as the tired horse went slowly through the wet grass. So much had transpired since their departure from Kesh that it seemed the house of the Snow Chanter must lie at some great distance, but it was not so. Very soon they came upon the place where the trees stood tall at the edge of the plain. The house, though, did not appear to them.

They stopped at the stream to let the horse drink. They were talking of cutting boughs to make a shelter when the scent of wood smoke alerted them. Both looked up—and there before them, as if it had been there all along, was the white house with sweeping red eaves and golden thatch, lovely within a veil of rain.

Lanyon ran to the door and opened it, but the Snow Chanter was not there. Kit hunted around the porch and behind the bath house but they could not find her. “She may still come,” he said without much hope. He helped her carry water and then he returned to the battleground, but before long he was back with the wounded—Kaliel, Bahir, and Alhimbra who had suffered a spear-thrust as he fought from his horse—all but Bennek, who must be carried on a litter.

~~~

The men of Habaddon took turns bearing the litter. Jakurian would have it no other way. To Marshal he said, “We owe Bennek our lives. We were sorely out-numbered this day, and we live now only because he has learned to confound the arowl like Édan of old.”

“This gift has come down to him from Samoket, not from Édan,” Marshal said, in a voice faint with grief. “Know that Bennek has never abandoned his duty.”

Kina trotted beside the litter, leaving Bennek’s side only when Pantheren called to her to scout the path ahead.

Though the clouds were still heavy, the rain relented as they left the foothills and drew near to the cottage. The hour was close to noon and the sun strove to make itself known as a ghostly circle behind the clouds. Lanyon had been watching, and when she saw them bearing the litter she ran through the wet grass to meet them—but the Snow Chanter greeted them first.

The men of Habaddon were much startled at her appearance, for though the Snow Chanter awaited them in a rain-wet field, her garments and even her shoes were clean and dry, and no rain had dampened her golden hair. Jakurian knew her at once as one of the Inyomere. Mistrusting her kind, he reached for his sword, but Pantheren stopped him. “Your mother is Samokeän. Look with her eyes.”

Then wonder overcame him and he folded to his knees. “I know you! You are the Mother of Samokea, Tayeraisa the Snow Chanter... though I do not know how such a thing can be.”

The Snow Chanter looked on him, seeming both curious and sad. “Your face I have seen before, for it is so like the face of Samoket that I tremble in remembrance.”

Pantheren said to her, “This is Jakurian, Blessed One, who is the son of Jahallon and of Nurea of Clan Samoket.”

“Well met, Jakurian, though my heart is heavy this day.” Her gaze turned to Bennek. “Here lies my child who has redeemed and defended me, now grievously wounded—”

“Can you help him, Blessed One?” Marshal pleaded.

Tayeraisa laid her hand against Bennek’s cheek. He stirred at her touch and Marshal imagined he saw a blush of warmth, but Tayeraisa told him, “It was Samoket’s will that all should live or die in their turn. So I did not ever learn this mystery.”

Lanyon came running up then, and she dropped to her knees beside the litter. “Bennek,” she whispered. “Do you still live? Show me that you live.”

His eyes fluttered open and his gaze fixed on her—but only for a moment. “You must not leave us, Bennek. I beg you. Please stay with us awhile yet.”

The Snow Chanter took her hand. “Rise up, my Little Sister. There is not time to grieve, for the Long War has come to a dangerous tipping point.”

Lanyon turned to her, wide-eyed, fearing what she had to say.

“Hearken to me now, my Little Sister, my far sons. Hear me, fell warriors of Habaddon. My news is dire. On this day, before the sun rose, I was summoned by one who is great among my kind. He is called Mukarigenze, though if his name is known to the people, I cannot say.”

“It is known,” Lanyon whispered.

Pantheren added warily, “It is known, but rarely spoken.”

The Inyomere of the Wild were of many kinds. The petty Inyomere were most common: small, nameless spirits, confined to tiny realms, and ignorant and uncaring of the larger land around them. The greater Inyomere—and the Snow Chanter and Siddél were among these—were possessed by a pervasive awareness of the Wild, and of each other. They knew one another by name and they spoke together across the Expanse. Some had made the fate of the people their concern, but all had learned from the people the concepts of time and purpose and consequence.

Rarest of all were the fundamental spirits, like Mukarigenze. These were the hidden Inyomere, unconcerned with the people, and unseen by them. The name of Mukarigenze was known to the people only because the lesser Inyomere would speak now and then of He Who Held Up the Mountains. Mukarigenze was weighty stone and dreadful time. He ruled the deep places, and could shake the very roots of the mountains.

The Snow Chanter told them, “It is within the power of Mukarigenze to re-make the face of the Wild: to tear the mountains down or build them higher, to flood the coasts or raise them far above the reach of the ocean, or to shake Habaddon and Hallah and the sad ruins of the Citadel so that not one stone stands any more atop another.

“Such has always been his power, but soon it may be his will.

“As I stood before him, even as Siddél brought his thunder here to threaten you, Mukarigenze said to me, ‘No more.’ He will endure the weeping of the Wild no longer. He told me:

‘Once upon a time I believed the Long War would reveal the intent of the One who wakened us. If the people were meant to live within the Wild, they would overcome Siddél’s abomination, but if they trespassed against the will of the One, they would be destroyed. So I waited and watched. For too long! The Wild can hardly endure its wounds. An end must be made.’

The Snow Chanter looked at Lanyon. “Mukarigenze knows who you are, Little Sister. He knows what you intend. I have prayed to him for time that you may try. But if it falls to Mukarigenze to end the Long War, I tell all of you now that it will not be ended in the people’s favor.”

“It is our purpose to end it,” Lanyon protested. “It is our task. It should have ended this very day, but—Far Mother, please, we will do all we can to make it so, just please persuade him to wait.”

“I will pray to him,” the Snow Chanter promised. “But in the end he will make up his own mind.”

~~~

Bennek was brought inside the cottage, and his litter was placed near the fire, though apart from the other wounded men. Then the men of Habaddon went out again, to the bath house and to tend the horses, leaving Lanyon alone with the wounded.

The fire crackled and popped, while on the stove a great pot of water hissed as it boiled. Lanyon took off her wet coat and boots and squeezed the water from her hair. There was nothing she could do this day to sooth or satisfy Mukarigenze but there was much she could do for Bennek.

She got a dry blanket, and gingerly, she pulled away the damp one that was still tucked around him. The gold pendant he always wore gleamed in the firelight. She saw that Pantheren had bound his ribs and set his leg, bandaging the wound made by the broken ends of bone, but scarlet blood seeped through the cloth. Lanyon covered him again with the dry blanket. Outside, Kina paced restlessly on the porch, whining as she passed the door.

As Lanyon was hanging coats and blankets to dry, Kit came in, fresh from the bath house. He went to Bennek and sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, cupping his hand. “Does he look better?”

Lanyon knelt on Bennek’s other side. “It’s the firelight. It puts color in his cheeks, but his face is cold.”

Then Kit was miserable again. “Marshal said the Snow Chanter doesn’t know any spell that will help.”

“Tayeraisa is our beloved far mother, but she is not of the people.”

“You are,” Kit said, sitting up straighter and looking at her with keen eyes. He glanced at the other wounded men, but they were asleep. “Is there something you know to do for him?”

“It will take some time.”

“I will help you.”

She looked up at the sound of footsteps on the porch. The door opened, and Pantheren came in with Jakurian.

Lanyon had been surprised to learn that Jakurian was Jahallon’s son, for Jahallon had taken no wife in all the many generations since Samoket’s mother died. Until he met Nurea of Clan Samoket it had been the common belief of his people that he would never marry again.

“Lanyon, come,” Pantheren said. “Jakurian would speak with you.”

So she arose and bowed to him, and he bowed to her in turn. “I have heard your story, Lanyon Kyramanthes, and I have seen your face before, in a painting that hangs within my father’s keep.”

“Jahallon said he made such paintings to help him remember the past.”

“That is still his way. Lanyon, I thank you for tending my men.”

“The people care for one another, War Father. It is our way.”

She returned to Bennek, kneeling at the head of the litter. Kit watched her closely. “I will help you,” he said again.

“I have a healing spell. I do not know if it’s strong enough—”

“Try it.”

She nodded. “These Habaddon men are not accustomed to sorcery. They may be fearful, and I cannot be interrupted.”

“I will watch over you.”

So Lanyon placed her palms one atop the other on Bennek’s forehead, and closing her eyes, she began a soft chant.

Pantheren had been heading outside to see that the watch was set, but when he heard Lanyon’s voice he turned back. “Lanyon! What spell do you work on him?”

“Leave her in peace!” Kit warned. “She seeks to save him.”

“Save him how? Lanyon, answer me!”

“It’s a healing spell,” Kit said. “You know she wouldn’t harm him.”

Jakurian returned to stand beside Pantheren, who was not satisfied with Kit’s answers. “Lanyon, even the Snow Chanter does not know how to heal... though Édan does. Marshal told me what you saw in the thickets. Édan is cursed, isn’t he? Just as Jahallon is cursed. I will not let you heal Bennek in that way.”

Kit rose in anger, but as he did Lanyon’s voice began to tremble. All waited to see if she would speak. She kept on to the end of a long verse of syllables, and then she stopped her chant and opened her eyes. “You think I would do such a thing?” she asked Pantheren.

“Why did you tell us Édan was dead?”

“Because he was! Yes, Siddél has cursed him, but I did not know it until today.”

“There are other things you have not told us.”

“I confess this is true, and I promise I will tell you everything that happened that night—but not now. Please, War Father.” Her gaze lowered, to fix on Bennek’s waxen face. “I think he does not have much time, and I am already tired.”

“Let her try,” Kit pleaded.

Pantheren did not look convinced, but he nodded reluctant agreement. “Very well. But do not reach farther than you can... or farther than you should.”

~~~

There was much coming and going throughout the afternoon as the men took turns in the bath house. Gear was sorted, swords were sharpened, supper was prepared, and soft words traded with the wounded. None of this touched Lanyon. Her chant persisted in unvarying rhythm.

In the evening, Tayeraisa came in and listened for a time. Then she went out again, seeming thoughtful.

Kaliel was one of those who had been wounded. As night fell, he rested by the fire with his companions, and as he listened to Lanyon’s voice a new awareness touched him. “Can you feel that?” he wondered aloud. “Bahir? Alhimbra? Can you feel a current moving in the Mere?”

“I can,” Alhimbra said. “It’s a subtle thing, with a sweetness to it. It gives me ease.”

“It’s a seduction,” Bahir countered. He cast a suspicious gaze on Lanyon. “There is too much that is strange in this place. I fear we will lose our way.”

“Sorcery is an Inyomere art,” Alhimbra said uneasily, “but it is not always evil.”

Kaliel nodded his agreement. “Even in Habaddon there is sorcery, for Jahallon himself has the gift of farseeing.”

“That is not sorcery,” Bahir answered. “Jahallon’s gift was his before ever the people were tainted by the Inyomere of the Wild.”

“Speak gently, Bahir,” Alhimbra urged. “For the Samokeäns love their Snow Chanter. Even Jakurian proudly claims his descent.”

“I do not speak against Samokea,” Bahir said. “But sorcery is the art of the Inyomere and I will never trust it.”

~~~

That night, Marshal volunteered to take the first watch, but Pantheren said they would share it. The night was cold and fog-bound. There was nothing to be seen but darkness all around. “Kina will patrol the field,” Pantheren said, “and you and I will watch with our ears.”

At first they stood on the porch. Marshal heard the chatter of the stream, the stamp of the horses, the blur of soft conversation from the house. Mostly he listened for Lanyon’s faint voice, chanting endless rounds of words that had no meaning that he knew. Finally he could bear it no longer. “I can hear nothing but our own noise. Let us walk about.”

“If you can see to put one step in front of another, you can see more than me.”

“Let us call Kina then. Darkness is nothing to her.”

So they summoned Kina and she led them across the bridge. There they heard the sound of their boots in the wet grass and now and then the call of some lonely night bird.

“I am tired,” Pantheren said at last. “More tired than I can ever remember being. It’s said men weaken if they are allowed to grow old. Perhaps it’s true.”

“There is no sleep in me,” Marshal answered.

“You are haunted by this day.” Marshal said nothing to this. “Why have you not been into the house to see your brother?”

“I cannot look on him,” Marshal admitted. “I cannot bear it.”

“Because you blame yourself for it.”

“It is my fault. I let it happen.”

“And did you imagine you could protect him always?”

“Sir, you misunderstand me. I have not such a high regard for myself. Not even Jahallon could guarantee the life of any man. But Bennek did not fall in battle. I asked him to confound the arowl—”

“It was I who asked him, Marshal.”

“And he was reluctant, but I made him do it. Sir, he is helpless when he works that spell. I promised I would watch over him... but he did not trust me to do it. He put his weapons close at hand, saying I might become distracted. He knew I would fail. He foresaw it.”

“He understood the chaos of battle, Marshal. That is all. We were in a desperate fight. Jakurian spoke truly when he said that he and his men would all be consumed now if Bennek had not confounded the pack. You did as much as any man could.”

“And still Bennek lies on his deathbed.”

Pantheren sighed in the darkness. “Marshal, if you had wanted him to remain unharmed you should have sent him south to Hallah when he was still a small boy. But that you could not do, for Bennek is a warrior of the north, and if he dies, he will die as a warrior. It is the same for all of us. On the day we are born our mothers know what our ends will be. It does not fall to us to ask why one man lives, when another makes the crossing. That is known only to the One who wakened us, if it is known at all. Our duty is to defend the Wild and our place in it. We must vanquish the blasphemy of Siddél so that the Wild may flourish again. Put aside your guilt, for it weakens you. You are an honorable man, with many tasks left to do before you make your own crossing.”

Marshal made no answer to this, but when the watch was done he went into the house. Kit had fallen asleep at Bennek’s side, but Lanyon still sat at his head, chanting now in a hoarse whisper. Marshal put more wood on the fire. Then he sat beside his brother and listened to his soft breathing, weighing again what Pantheren had said and letting himself feel the truth of it. He kissed Bennek’s hand. “I am not sad,” he said, “for all will be set right when we cross over.”

“But when you are all gone away, I will still be here.”

He looked up, surprised to see Tayeraisa for he had not heard her approach. The firelight cast a warm glow on her skin that reminded him of the flush of dawn among the peaks. “Blessed One, I did not mean we would abandon you.”

“Still, it is true time will take you away. But though you are gone, the Wild will remain. Do not leave it a broken thing! It is the duty of the people, of my people, to rid the Wild of the evil of the arowl. Do not flee this task!”

“Far Mother, we will serve you in this, for as long as fate allows.”

“I know you will, and Kit and Bennek too.”

“Bennek would serve you longer if he could.”

“Does he not look better to you?” She stepped around Kit’s sleeping figure, to crouch beside Lanyon, who showed no awareness of her. “My little sister has done much for him this night, but she is weary. Her will fades. But I have learned the name of this spell, and I will call it until the dawn. Take Lanyon to sleep now, for she is at the end of her strength.”

Hope was renewed in Marshal’s heart. He scrambled to his feet. “My far mother, never will I forget this kindness.”

“Never will I forget your faith.” She held her hands poised above Bennek’s forehead, setting them on his brow when Marshal lifted Lanyon’s hands away. Tayeraisa took up the chant, while Lanyon crumpled in Marshal’s arms. He carried her to the corner where she had left her things, and he covered her in a blanket. Then finally he gave into sleep himself, drifting away to the soft, strong music of Tayeraisa’s voice.

Chapter 18

The sun returned in the morning. The shutters were thrown open. Adrift between waking and dreams, Bennek felt the pressure of light on his closed eyes and imagined himself as thistledown lofted high above the land on a gentle breeze. Only slowly did the sounds around him bring him back into the world: the soft prattle of the men, their footsteps as they came and went, the breathy voice of the fire, the sizzle of breakfast cooking.

A soft hand touched his cheek. “You are wakeful,” Lanyon said happily. He felt her lips warm against his ear as she whispered, “Bennek, I know you hear me. You must thrive, for I need you to be well. Do not break my heart.”

A heavier hand rested on his forehead. “His fever is all but gone,” Pantheren said, “and his breathing has eased.” Bennek felt the touch of cool air as the blanket that covered him was lifted aside. “Even the swelling in his leg has subsided. You have called him back to life, Lanyon.”

“He has much life in him, do you not, Bennek?”

Bennek did not remember how to make an answer, but Lanyon touched his cheek again, saying, “Do not fret. You will be well soon, and then I will teach you the fire spell, as I promised.”

“He is a good man,” Pantheren said in humor. “Do not corrupt him with magic.” Then came the sound of his footsteps moving away to the other side of the fire.

Bennek could not tell if Lanyon was still beside him, but when he blinked, a gentle hand wiped his eyes with a damp cloth. The door opened, and Jakurian came in with a blaze of sunlight at his back. Bennek closed his eyes again against the glare. “Ah, Lanyon Kyramanthes,” Jakurian said in a hushed voice, “how does Bennek fare?”

She answered merrily, from somewhere just out of sight, “He is well, War Father... considering.”

“All thanks to the spell worked by you and the Snow Chanter. It has filled this house with wholesomeness. Infection has not touched the wounds of any man here. Pain has been eased, fever quenched, and while I should be sore in every limb, I feel refreshed, as if with many days of rest.”

“I am pleased to hear it, my Captain.” This was said by Kaliel, who had passed a quiet night despite the grave bite wound he had suffered on his thigh. “Let us then return all the sooner to our homes. This sorcerer we pursued is dead and his arowl are slain. Our task here is done.”

Bennek blinked and looked up. The Habaddon captain loomed above him. He saw that Jakurian was surprised by Kaliel’s words. Jakurian was even more startled when the other men in the house swiftly voiced agreement. He said to them, “I confess it has not been in my mind to turn back so soon. I have seen wonders in Samokea and I have heard mention of more. As for the sorcerer”—Bennek closed his eyes again as sleep tugged at him—“I think his fate is not certain, and neither is his name. There is a strange story being told here. This morning I asked Kit what had brought him north and he said it was first to rescue the Snow Chanter, and now that is accomplished, to slay Siddél. To slay Siddél! I have never had the temerity to even imagine such a thing, but Kit speaks of it so matter-of-factly I begin to believe it’s possible... especially when I hear Pantheren has given his support to the deed. Tell us, War Father, do you truly see hope in it?”

Bennek was startled back to awareness by Pantheren’s sharp response. “It is not a question of hope. It is only a deed we must try.”

“So it is true.” Jakurian sounded pleased. “Pantheren of Habaddon has resolved to meet the monster in his lair.”

“I am the one resolved to it,” Lanyon said softly.

Bennek opened his eyes, but she was still behind him. He could not see her, though he could see Jakurian looking on her with a thoughtful gaze. “There is a strange story here,” he said again. “I think we should hear it in full before judging if our task in Samokea is done.”

“Summon the men,” Pantheren said. “I would hear the full story too.”

Bennek tried to stay awake, but the sounds around him blurred and for a time nightmares flitted through his mind. In these visions it was night. He heard the rumble of thunder, and Siddél’s mocking voice on a storm wind. In a dark bedchamber the only light came from a stray flame flickering on a hearth. In that faint glimmer he saw a woman waking with a start. He could not see her face but he knew it was Lanyon. She had gone to sleep with her babies beside her but now the bed was empty.

Her hand touched his cheek. He heard again the sounds of the cottage: water boiling on the stove; Kina pacing the porch; and Lanyon speaking in a soft, reluctant voice. “From that chamber a stairway went up to Édan’s study. The door to it stood open just a little and around its edge a blue-gold light flickered—”

Her breathing was ragged with fear as she raced up the staircase. The door opened easily, and in silence. She looked in on a long table covered in blue and gold flames. No heat was emitted from the burning—it was not a natural fire—the smoke that rose from it was a shimmering vapor, like unformed ghosts.

She stepped closer... but then she spoke again, and once more the night receded. Bennek felt the pressure of daylight on his closed eyes. “If a warrior dies a shameful death, do you describe his cowardice to the widow who loves him? Or do you tell her he was a brave man who did his best?”

“No one goes forever untouched by fear,” Pantheren said. “We remember the best of a man.”

“I know Jahallon loved Édan. He loves him still. Édan’s deeds still inspire men. He is the pride of Samokea. So when Jahallon and Pantheren came upon me this summer, I did not tell them all that I knew of that night. Let Édan be loved! That’s what I thought. No good could be served by soiling his memory... and in truth I was ashamed that anyone should know what really happened. But now Édan is alive, and you War Father, and these men, and Jahallon—all of you!—before you seek him out and beg him to again ride at the head of your armies, know this—”

Bennek gasped as darkness closed in on him again. Blue-gold fire shimmered and danced on the table top. And half-hidden within the flames he saw them: the infant wrapped in the small boy’s embrace. Not burning. They were fading, transforming slowly into a shimmering vapor. A single arrow pierced both their hearts. Its shaft was carved with prayers and its spindle-shaped arrowhead was beaded with droplets of blood like red sweat.

On the other side of the table, gazing at Lanyon across the fire, was Édan, his face youthful and unscarred. “They were born to war,” he said gently. “They were born to the service of the people.”

Then Bennek fell away into a deeper darkness and far away he heard a woman screaming, but close beside him he heard Édan speaking again, “I have sacrificed what I love only to end this war.”

The blue-gold fire licked away the last evidence of Lanyon’s children, leaving only the arrow behind. The night went silent. Édan set the arrow against the string of a heavy bow, gazing up another staircase that led past a wooden door to the roof. Seconds passed. Then all the dogs in the city howled as a blast of lightning blew the door asunder.

Édan was ready, but Siddél did not come just yet. Instead, a second stroke of lightning exploded against the rafters. Part of the roof collapsed. At the same time all the books and furnishings, the wall hangings and the curtains, burst into flame.

Lanyon spoke, but this time the darkness did not recede. “He was crushed and dying beneath the fallen beams. You have heard of Édan’s voice? He could speak as the Inyomere do with one another—silently, within the mind. So he spoke to me then. He told me to find his cursed arrow. He passed this task to me! And Siddél came. I saw him beyond the flames at the top of the stairs. I was afraid, and I retreated to the inner door.

Grathrak! Bennek flinched as the Inyomere’s deafening voice spoke this single word and all the fires died. Choking black smoke filled the chamber. Nothing could be seen. Then a rush of wind stirred the smoke and there was a great clash and clatter.

Lanyon said, “I aimed Édan’s arrow at the noise. I guided the flight of the spell it carried so it would not go astray. But I mistook my target.”

From across the room, Bennek saw an enchanted flame flare along the arrow’s shaft, illuminating its victim. It was Édan. He was held up by his hair in the great fist of the Inyomere Siddél, who was so tall he hunched beneath the broken rafters. The arrow was sunk so deep in Édan’s chest that it must have pierced through to the other side. Édan was certainly dead. Bennek could not doubt it.

Then the darkness drew away and daylight took over. Bennek blinked, seeing again the cottage, crowded with men.

Lanyon said, “I think Siddél sensed his peril. It may even be that the arrow pricked him when it passed through Édan, for he dropped Édan’s body and fled howling through the broken roof. I pulled the arrow from Édan’s chest. The arrowhead does not have hooks and it came out cleanly—but he did not gasp or flinch. War Father I swear to you he was dead! You would have thought him dead.

“I could not flee, for the room below was on fire. I could not breathe for all the smoke and the heat—and I heard Siddél returning on the stairway.

“So I spoke the spell of time that Édan had taught to me.

“But I was enlivened with a power that was not my own, and also I held Édan’s arrow in my hands. The spell came with a force I never imagined possible, and it carried me through all the years since that night.”

Again she touched Bennek’s cheek. “Be at rest,” she whispered. “I will say no more on it.”

~~~

Pantheren looked around the cottage where all the men were gathered. It seemed to him it should be dark night, but the morning was bright despite the lateness of the season. “Something of life must have been left in Édan when Siddél returned. I have seen it before—mortally wounded men holding on past all expectation.”

“So it is true then,” Jakurian mused. “Édan is still in the world. How did he escape from Siddél, I wonder?”

Bahir said, “No doubt he corrupted the arowl that guarded him. Aidin or Édan—he could command the arowl to do what he required.”

Pantheren walked to a window; he looked out on the fields. “Siddél did not even know Édan had escaped him—the great blundering fool!—until he discovered him yesterday.”

Jakurian joined him. “Siddél knows now. He will hunt Édan. It will be dangerous for him to move about, even with a pack of tame dire wolves to protect him. Why didn’t he return to my father? As Lanyon has said, his name is well-loved in Habaddon. He would have been embraced as a hero.”

“He is ashamed,” Pantheren said. “He spent the lives of his children, he failed to defend the Citadel of the Snow Chanter, he lost Samokea—and all for nothing, because Siddél still lives. The shame must burn in him.”

“You think he is capable of feeling shame?” All turned to look at Lanyon. “It’s not shame that drives him. He is not ashamed of what he did. He believes he made a great sacrifice and we should love him for it. No, it is something else that drives him. Kit! Marshal—do you remember what happened when I used the arrow to break the ice that held the Snow Chanter?”

They both looked confused, but Tayeraisa answered. “The cold of the ice followed the spell’s path back to you. I felt it.”

“Yes. The arrow drinks from its victims and some of that power it keeps, but the rest rolls back to the archer. Yesterday Édan said to me these words, ‘You have taken enough from me already.’ I am remembering how I felt that night after the arrow killed him. I was flush with power. His power, drained from him by the spell of the arrow. Yesterday, Édan stopped me from slaying Siddél. He spoiled my shot. And he said to me, ‘It is not for you to become the storm.’ War Father, do you understand? It is not his wish just to end the Long War, just to see Siddél destroyed—”

“He would become the storm,” Jakurian said. “He would take for himself the power of Siddél.”

Bahir added, “And him a man who would murder his own children.”

Lanyon nodded. “I will not let him have the talisman. It is not his task anymore.”

~~~

Afterward, Lanyon helped Bennek to eat some porridge, while the other men went out to enjoy the sun. Before long, Kit came in through the back door, bringing Kina with him. The hound went straight to Bennek, lying next to him with her chin resting on his pallet. “She has been so worried for you,” Lanyon said. “I think she is happy now.”

Bennek tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.

“Ah, Bennek,” Kit chided, “you should not make such faces at a pretty woman.”

Bennek slipped in and out of sleep, but he suffered no more dreams of the Citadel. Kit kept watch, peering out the window every few minutes until after a time he called to Kina and shooed her out the back door. A moment later the front door opened and Pantheren came in with Marshal. “We will tell him now,” Marshal said. Lanyon nodded. They sat together around Bennek. Lanyon took his hand, rousing him from sleep.

He looked at her and smiled. But then he noticed the others and he did not like what he saw on their faces.

“Bennek, we are going on tomorrow,” Marshal told him. “The land has been mostly emptied of arowl, so there’s a chance we may journey far unhindered—but we must go at once, before more come over the mountains.”

Pantheren wanted the full truth out. “Bennek, you will go south with Jakurian’s men.”

So Bennek understood what they intended. He whispered a hoarse, “No.” He tried to sit up, but he could not. Lanyon eased him back to the pillow.

“Jakurian’s men will care for you,” Pantheren went on gently, remorselessly. “They will bring you safely to Habaddon. You cannot ride, so you must return by the river. The Snow Chanter has promised to provide us a boat. The horses will follow on the shore.”

Bennek shook his head. His eyes were pleading. “I must go on,” he whispered. “You will need me.”

Marshal took his hand. “We will need you. But we will have to make do just the same. Jakurian will come with us—”

“No.” Bennek tried to sit up again, and again he failed. “Marshal, do not send me away. A few days rest, and I will be well.”

“There is no choice in it,” Pantheren said with finality. “It will take many times more than a few days for you to heal. When you are well though, you may offer your oath to Jahallon. Then Bennek, I think you will see enough battles to satisfy even your warrior’s heart.”

~~~

So the next morning they bade the Snow Chanter farewell. Kit pleaded with her to come north with them, but she declined. “I must return to the peaks and dwell there until the winter has filled me and I am myself again.” But she stayed to watch them as they set out over the field.

Four men went on foot, carrying Bennek’s litter. All the others went on horseback. It was three miles through the grasslands to the River Talahnon. Here the river slowed after its sprint from the mountain, and among the reeds they found two canoes as the Snow Chanter had promised.

Jakurian had his men test the canoes, and when they were satisfied, they returned to the riverbank. The first task was to ferry the supplies of those who would go on, to the river’s northern shore. Horses were unsaddled; gear and baggage was stowed in the canoes. It was the work of a few minutes to cross the river and unload the cargo on the other bank. Then the canoes returned.

The moment of parting had come. Jakurian spoke quietly with his men, while Marshal and Kit tried to comfort Bennek as they could. The vigor that had only begun to return to him had drained away, and he seemed stricken with a terrible sadness, so that Marshal feared again for his survival. “You must not grieve, Bennek. We will be together again, in this world or the next.”

“I am not grieving,” Bennek said to him in a whisper. “I never am sad. I only hope that you will come back someday.”

Marshal kissed his forehead. Then he turned quickly away.

Kit squeezed Bennek’s hand. “You must represent us well in Habaddon, my cousin. Remember that Pantheren said the captains thought us somewhat odd and addled. You must not disappoint them!”

“I will try to live up to your example.”

“There’s my lad.”

Kit started to rise. “Where is Lanyon?” Bennek asked him.

Kit looked around, and discovered her standing at the water’s edge, gazing across the river, with Kina at her side. He sighed. “I think she is not sad, like you.”

As if sensing his gaze, Lanyon turned, her coppery hair blowing in long ribbons about her face.

“Take care, Bennek,” Kit said.

“And you,” he whispered. Then he was alone, but only for a moment. Next he knew Lanyon was kneeling beside him. He reached up, past the blowing strands of her hair to touch her cheek. “You are here.”

She smiled. Then she caught his hand, and kissed it. “You will thrive, Bennek.”

“You must come back and teach me the fire spell.”

“Do you remember the chant I spoke over you?”

He nodded.

“That is a better magic. Practice that instead.”

She started to rise, but he gripped her hand more tightly. “Take the pendant from around my neck. I want you to have it.” With his other hand he started to reach for the leather thong that bound it, but the pain from his ribs made him cry out.

“Bennek stop!” She cupped both his hands to restrain him.

“Please wear it, Lanyon. Let me be with you still.”

She shook her head. “It’s your mother’s and it belongs with you.”

“You will forget me,” he said in sudden anger.

She looked on him with a wistful smile. “No, I do not think I will.” Then she was away, running down to the canoes.

Finally it was only Kina who waited at his side. Bennek scratched her ear and stroked her head. Then Pantheren whistled for her to come. At first she did not listen. So Pantheren called her again, and then a third time. Finally Bennek told her she must go.

The horses were driven into the water. They swam across the river behind the canoes and Kina swam with them.

After a time, the canoes returned. Bennek was laid in one, with saddle blankets to pad his head and back. Gear was stowed around him. A man named Meriton had the task of handling the canoe. “Are you ready, son?” he asked Bennek.

“I am ready,” Bennek assured him. It was only the brightness of the sun in the noontime sky that made his eyes water.

~~~

On the north bank no one hurried.

The horses were left unsaddled so that they might roll in the grass and sun themselves after their river crossing, but the animals took no ease. They were restless and unhappy, tugging at their ropes and neighing loudly to their friends left behind across the river. Kina shared their mood. She trotted back and forth, back and forth at the water’s edge, her gaze fixed on the canoe where Bennek had been laid.

“You would do well to leash her,” Jakurian advised, but Pantheren made no answer. No one else spoke.

Across the river, Alhimbra and Kaliel were assisted into the second canoe. Then the boats were launched. On shore, the five who would ride mounted their horses. They waved a final goodbye, calling out good wishes that were mostly caught on the wind and carried away. Then they set out south and east along the river, following behind the boats.

Kina could bear it no longer. With a frantic yelp she leaped into the water and set out downriver, swimming hard, with the current at her back. Lanyon started forward in shock. “Kina! Ki-na!” The hound refused to hear. Lanyon turned to Pantheren, to find him watching the dog with a cold gaze. “War Father, you must call her back before she has gone so far she cannot hear you!”

Pantheren shook his head. “Bennek is her master now.” He turned his back on the river. “Jakurian, Marshal, Kit—our task lies before us. Let us ready the horses.”

Lanyon left them the work of grooming and saddling the animals. She stayed by the river’s edge, watching Kina until, far down the river, the dog reached the southern bank and vanished into the tall grass. A moment later the canoes, tiny with distance, disappeared from sight. The horsemen had become dark specks that bobbed and floated in a steady retreat into the green, until finally they too were swallowed up by the vastness of the plain.

Marshal brought the mare that had been given to Lanyon to ride. “Lanyon? All is ready.”

“Then let us find Siddél,” she said softly, “as we found the Snow Chanter.”

~~~

For most of that afternoon they rode in silence, with the foothills of the Tiyat-kel on their left, and the lush grasslands reaching to the eastern horizon. They saw rabbit and pheasant, and once they came across the burrow of a fox. They saw no living arowl, but twice they passed the remains of the beasts: broken skulls, scattered bones, and poorly made weapons rusting under the open sky. “The bones look gnawed,” Kit observed. “Perhaps they consume one another?”

“I have little doubt of it,” Jakurian answered. “Though such appetites are forgotten if ever they catch the scent of the people.”

In the evening they made camp beside a small stream that came down from the foothills. They made no fire.

~ Ghosts ~

Chapter 19

On the third morning after the parting at the River Talahnon, the five companions left the green plains, entering a land where the stony soil supported only thickets and scattered groves of stunted trees. The weather had been fair, but on that day heavy clouds came up from the south and the wind grew chill. In the late afternoon they began to look for shelter.

Kit and Marshal were riding together well ahead of the others. Before Kesh, neither had much experience of horses, but in the days since, under the tutelage of Pantheren and Jakurian, their skills had grown rapidly. Near dusk Kit came galloping back with the news that they had discovered a small cave. “There is not much room, but except for some old bones it is empty, and with luck it will stay dry awhile.”

They hurried to tether the horses in a thicket as the first drops of rain began to fall. They hauled the gear inside. The cave was dark and cramped and cold. As the rain strengthened to a steady downpour, they ruefully recalled the comforts of Kesh.

“Would that we could at least make a fire!” Kit lamented. “But there is nowhere for the smoke to go.”

“Would that we had a light,” Jakurian replied, “for I admit a dread of the utter darkness that is almost upon us.”

He had no sooner spoken these words, than a pool of white light glimmered into existence on the surface of a hollow stone in the middle of the cave, illuminating rough walls and weary faces. Jakurian drew back in alarm.

“Do not be afraid!” Kit said with a laugh. “For Lanyon, the spell of light is an easy thing.”

She answered in a trembling voice, “This is not my spell.” In the weird light her face had the waxy pallor of death.

Just then Marshal uttered a cry of surprise. There was hardly room to turn around in the cave, and still he scrambled away from the back wall where he had been sitting. “There is a ghost here! I can feel its chill.”

“It’s a sorcerer’s ghost, then,” Pantheren said, rising from the seat he had taken at the cave’s mouth.

“There it is!” Kit cried.

A tall, glimmering figure now stood beside the luminous stone. The light bent around it and passed through it, so that its edges and angles were hard to see. Still, its shape suggested a proud warrior in battle armor. Its gaze was fixed on Lanyon, and though she had retreated as far as the tiny cave allowed, she met its stare with defiant eyes. Then she exclaimed, “You know what happened that night? You knew what he intended?” Moments later, fury overcame her. “I will not tell you anything! Leave me and do not come again! Be gone!”

Obedient to this command, the ghost vanished. The chill that had marked its presence also disappeared, though the pool of light remained. Lanyon huddled against the wall, looking stunned.

Jakurian crouched beside her. “Speak. Are you all right?”

“I did not know a ghost could work spells.”

“You sent it away,” Marshal said in admiration.

“I knew him in life.”

“Knew who?” Jakurian asked. “This ghost?”

She nodded. “He was once Renthian of Samokea, who was a skilled sorcerer, and also counselor to Édan. He was in the Citadel that night Siddél came.”

Pantheren’s suspicions were stirred. “Was this ghost sent by Édan?”

“No. Renthian believes Édan to be dead. He came because he sensed the talisman—he knows what it is—but he did not expect to find me.”

“So this Renthian,” Jakurian asked, “he knew what Édan had done? It was not a secret after all?”

“He suspected—they must have discussed it—but he didn’t know it as a certainty—not until now.” She rubbed at her eyes and sighed. “I am sorry. I let anger rule me. I should have questioned him more.”

“He put the blame on you, didn’t he?” Pantheren asked. “That’s what men will do when a chieftain fails them. They would rather have the unblemished legend than the truth.”

Lanyon admitted it was so. “He decided I must have stolen the talisman and fled, leaving Édan helpless when Siddél came. So it is my fault his kin are no more.”

Kit said, “It is insufferable to be so accused!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lanyon assured him. “Renthian is a ghost and he has no power over me.”

“But why is he here?” Jakurian wanted to know. “So very far from the Citadel of the Snow Chanter?”

She shrugged. “He sensed the talisman and he came. That is surely how Édan found us too—but I cannot hide it.”

“Will he come back?” Marshal wondered.

“I do not know.”

Pantheren again took his seat by the cave mouth. Jakurian and Marshal set about organizing the gear, while Lanyon and Kit put together another cold meal. The lack of a fire was a trial, but the light remained steady, so at least they were not oppressed by darkness.

~~~

The dawn brought an east wind that drove away the mist and chased the clouds up to a great height. All the peaks of the Tiyat-kel glistened with a bright cap of new snow. They did not set out at once, but instead laid out their coats and saddle blankets in the sun, so it was late morning when they started north again.

They had been riding for awhile when Marshal asked, “How far is it from Habaddon to Ohtangia? Is it farther than the distance we have journeyed through Samokea?”

“Half again as far,” Pantheren said. “Like Samokea, Ohtangia is a vast land, and requires many days to traverse.”

“Have you been there?” Kit asked him.

“I have. I journeyed there once as a young man, and then went on south until I reached the walled city of Hallah—and that was many times farther still.”

Marshal shook his head. “I confess I did not know the Wild was so vast. Each day as we go north I keep thinking we must soon reach the edge of all things, but always there is more.”

“Far more,” Pantheren agreed, “though what lies to the north is mostly mystery.”

“Mystery?” Kit asked. “What mystery is there? We know Siddél’s home may be found in the north, this ‘Storm Lair’... is it not so? Though perhaps we don’t know precisely where it lies?”

“No one knows,” Pantheren said. “None among the people have ever seen it.”

“Then how do we know there is such a place?”

“The Inyomere know of it,” Lanyon told him.

“Then the Snow Chanter has told you how to find it?”

“Oh no. The Snow Chanter is bound to her place and has never ventured from it. But there are many among the petty Inyomere who wander far. It’s my hope that before long we will find some willing to speak with us.”

“Other than the Snow Chanter, I have never met an Inyomere willing to speak,” Jakurian said.

“You have not ventured in Ohtangia,” Pantheren told him. “There the Inyomere lived long in the company of Clan Kyramanthes and many are interested in the doings of the people. Let us hope we find some like kind on the path ahead.”

They saw no Inyomere, but as they continued north into the afternoon, the trees grew taller and more abundant, and before long they found themselves riding through a forest, though it was not a lovely place. The trees looked broken and worn—heavy with dead branches—and some were half-fallen. Only the thorn trees appeared to flourish. No one had seen their kind before. They were not tall, but their trunks were thick and bore a pebbly armor pierced everywhere with long black thorns. Nothing grew beneath the wide reach of their branches, but everywhere else the weeds were tall and thick, and the horses were soon made fretful by the stickers that clung to their legs.

And as they went along they were met, more and more often, by the pungent reek of decay.

It did not take long to discover why.

Hidden among the weeds and disguised in the leaf-litter beneath the thorn trees was an abundance of arowl bones. Many were weathered and old, but many others were fresh, and a few still had shreds of skin and flesh attached. All were chewed and broken. Jakurian spoke in a hushed voice, “There is nothing left in this land but arowl.”

Pantheren also spoke softly, “It’s strange we have not heard the howling of any pack, but perhaps they were called away to Kesh, and died there. I pray it is so.”

No one wanted to linger, so they pushed on until the afternoon grew old. Then they found a hollow on the side of a hill and they stopped awhile so the horses might rest, but they were resolved to ride on past nightfall in the hope of escaping that unhappy land.

Lanyon put together another cold supper of dried fish and the last, stale remnants of the bread they had brought from Kesh.

The droning of flies surrounded them as they ate, calling attention to the odor of death they could not leave behind. Marshal shook his head in puzzlement. “I don’t understand it. This lands feels... oppressed... as if by silence. Or something like silence. And yet the birds sing and the flies buzz. Never have I seen so many flies!”

“This is a soulless place,” Lanyon agreed. “It reminds me of the ruins of the Citadel when I returned there in the summer past... but that was barren, and the Inyomere were gone.”

“I wonder if that’s it. I wonder if any Inyomere remain here. Though this forest is lush and green it still feels unloved and unkempt.”

“It surely does,” Lanyon agreed. “And yet I wonder if there’s a second cause of our discontent. We’ve grown so quiet and dull since we’ve been without Bennek.”

This inspired from Kit a dramatic sigh. “It’s true. I do truly miss him. And I feel it’s my duty to take over the task of asking you awkward questions, Lanyon, so we might feel more ourselves again.”

Marshal smiled—for the first time in days, or so it seemed. “Sadly, my cousin, we know you are too well-mannered for such a role.”

Jakurian laughed. “I regret there was not time for me to know your brother better... though I confess my feelings for him are not all fond. It’s a hard thing to know that Pantheren has allowed me here only as a poor substitute for Bennek.”

This ignited a rare, playful glint in Pantheren’s eyes. “Find me the arowl before they may be seen or heard, and then confound them. When you can do that, perhaps I will put you first again.”

Jakurian spread his hands helplessly.

Kit shook his head. “I fear we are all doomed to be bested.”

“This night we are doomed to go without sleep,” Pantheren answered. “Come. Darkness is not far off. Let us make ready to go.”

~~~

Nightfall showed them that the forest was haunted not just by the scent of death, but also by its memory. Ghosts were revealed, come to watch them pass. The specters appeared amid the shadows, each with a stern face and a cold awareness in its pale gaze. They lingered only a few seconds before disappearing again, but always there was another farther along, lurking in the deep darkness beneath the most ancient trees.

The ghost of Renthian of Samokea came again to watch them, and later the ghost of another Samokeän captain Lanyon had known long ago. After this, she pulled her hood over her head so that her face was hidden, and she refused to look about anymore.

The horses went quietly, one after another in the leaf-filtered starlight. After a time, a breeze stirred. For a few seconds branches rustled and murmured. Then the breeze died away and the forest grew still again, but now a new sound came to them: the quick, crunching, twig-snapping beat of tiny feet speeding through the leaf litter. A moment later, a knee-high, man-like silhouette burst into the starlight. “It’s an Inyomere!” Kit cried.

“Wait, sir!” Lanyon called to it. “Stay but a moment.”

It froze at the sound of her voice. It was a tiny thing, gazing up at her with luminous green eyes. Its garment was of autumn leaves, and its fingers were long, gray, and kinked, like roots that have been torn from the soil. “The hunters come, Blessed One,” it said, in a voice that was low and crisp like rustling leaves. “They seek to kill us. You must flee!” It darted beneath the belly of Jakurian’s horse and disappeared into the night.

Lanyon yanked off her hood and turned her head this way and that, but nothing could be seen, nothing heard. Then she gasped. “They are bespelled! They wear the hunter’s veil! Tirvallian! Part these veils now!”

Abruptly, the forest was awake with the rustle and crunch of feet running on fallen leaves. Figures darted between the trees. Here, starlight illumined the hideous face of a were-wolf. There, the light glinted off rows of needle-sharp teeth.

Kit and Marshal pulled their spears. Pantheren and Jakurian unsheathed their swords. But Lanyon stood up in her stirrups and cried out to them, “No, wait! These are not arowl. They are people. Do not hurt them! We do not war against the people!”

“I see no people!” Kit answered her. “They are only beasts!”

With a whoosh and a whir, a flurry of darts was launched from the forest. Jakurian urged his horse forward so that with his body he could block the darts from striking Lanyon, but she did not wait. She cried out the name of the fire spell and many of the darts burst into flame, falling like burning stars to the ground.

Jakurian was unscathed, but Kit was not so lucky. He shuddered as a dart pierced his coat to prick his right arm. At once the muscles in that arm became numb and useless and his spear fell from his hand.

Pantheren was struck in his hand and thigh, and then a third time in his chest. He clutched at his saddle, to keep from falling to the ground. “Run, Lanyon,” he croaked, in a voice that was almost gone. “Ride! Jakurian, defend her.”

“Please hear me!” she shouted. “We are not your enemies.”

Figures swarmed from the darkness. From atop his horse, Jakurian looked down on a sea of arowl faces, hideous in the starlight. Arowl! Hunting under the protection of an enchantment. He seized the bridle of Lanyon’s mare. She saw what he intended and tried to stop him—“Jakurian, no!” —but he did not heed her. Pantheren and Kit were already wounded and Marshal must soon be overwhelmed. Never before had Jakurian abandoned living men to the rampages of arowl. He was filled with horror. But his first duty was to protect Lanyon, and the talisman she carried. With a fierce cry, he urged both horses into headlong flight.

“Lanyon is away!” Marshal cried—but her warning stayed with him. These are people. Indeed, all these seeming-arowl had the hands of people. All of them spoke with the voices of people as they called tactics to one another, and yet they had the faces and hides of arowl.

Doubt restrained him. When he saw a small beast fighting to pull Pantheren from his horse, he used only the shaft of his spear to whack it on the back. The creature had a were-wolf’s head, but the hands it used to seize Pantheren were a man’s hands. The shout it uttered when Marshal’s blow struck was a man’s shout.

The people did not war against the people.

Marshal knocked another in the chest. He turned his horse in a tight circle, driving two more of the creatures back from Kit, but in the moment his attention was away, five more swarmed on Pantheren. Marshal shouted and drove his horse into their midst. He seized one by the coarse gray, wolfish hair of its head, intending to throw it back, but to his astonishment, its scalp slipped off in his hand. He was left holding a hollow mask made of arowl hide, while a lithe, smooth-skinned youth no older than himself spun away with a shout. The other beasts paid no heed as they wrestled Pantheren to the ground.

Marshal was filled with fury. “Stop this now!” he shouted. He spun his horse around again to see another pack of beasts swarming Kit. “Masks and skins and bestial enchantment do not make you arowl!” He flung the hideous scalp to the ground. “Stand off! Remember yourselves! The people do not draw weapons against one another.”

They heeded him not. Kit was forced to the ground and his horse spirited away into the darkness. Pantheren’s mount also was taken, and Pantheren himself lay bound in the mud. Fury glinted in his eyes, but a spear point rested against his throat and this kept him quiet. “If you kill him,” Marshal warned, “we are all doomed.”

He looked up, to find himself encircled by the beast people. He counted eighteen. Three stood with bows drawn, their arrows aimed at his heart. All of them were masked as arowl, save for the youth, and a slender man who wore the silvery face of an Inyomere of the stream.

One, who was robed in black fur, stepped forward. He was not so tall as many, but the mask he wore was more hideous than any other: a leering face, with wide eyes set too far apart in a flat, black-furred face. The broad nose looked decayed and the mouth was huge, with dog lips sagging around sharp white teeth. What creature Siddél had twisted to create such a beast, Marshal could not guess. How these people had contrived to animate such a mask was an equal mystery, for the eyes appeared full of life, the nostrils flared, and spit flecked the black lips.

But the wearer of this mask was done with disguise. Graceful hands reached up to remove it, and as the mask slipped free, the life went out of it. It became but a hollow skin, with painted eyes. A woman stood revealed. Marshal had never seen another like her. In the glimmering starlight she seemed to glow, so pale was her skin. She was terribly thin, almost wraithlike. Her hair, which was coiled in a tight braid behind her neck, seemed white in the faint light. Her eyes appeared hollow. In other circumstance he might have mistaken her for a ghost. Even so, he found her ethereally beautiful.

She smiled at him, but it was a hungry smile. “Dismount,” she told him.

Marshal drew himself up a little straighter. “The people do not war against the people,” he reminded her. Secretly, he hoped he had not struck her with his spear.

“Perhaps you are people, and perhaps you are not,” she said. “Dismount, and we shall find out.”

“Dismount, you fool,” Pantheren croaked in a hoarse whisper. “Or they will kill you.”

“Listen to your father,” the woman advised.

Marshal had not the chance. One of her companions was overcome with impatience. A dart hissed, striking Marshal in the neck, biting deep. Instantly, he felt himself adrift, his breath stolen away as he sank irresistibly into the frigid black waters of a midnight lake. Gazing back at the world from beneath the surface, he saw the pale woman leaning over the waters as if searching for something. Then she went away, and darkness slowly closed over the bright faces of the stars.

Chapter 20

Jakurian pushed the horses hard, heedless of where they went, so long as they found a way in the darkness. He was shaken by horror, and shamed by the cruel blessing of his own survival. Lanyon must depend now on him alone, and he did not feel worthy. He, who had left behind living men!

“Jakurian! Jakurian, listen to me! Slow a moment, and listen.”

He had taken the reins of Lanyon’s horse. He had cut them from her hands when she had tried to turn back. “Jakurian, please stop!”

“Do not call out!” he warned her in a hard voice. “Do not give us away.” He did not stop, but the horses had run hard, so he let them slow to a walk.

In the darkness Lanyon was a hunched silhouette, clinging to the mane of her mare. “I will not shout, if you will listen. They are not pursuing us! We must go back.”

“There is nothing to go back for! And they will come after us. They will bay on our trail after they have sated themselves. We must be far away by then.”

“Jakurian, hear me! They were not arowl! They were sorcerers. They had enchanted themselves with a living disguise, but they were people. Didn’t you hear them speak? Didn’t you see their hands?”

“I confess I did not. I saw only their faces.” He puzzled over it, and hope stirred in his heart. “If they were people, why did they attack us?”

“I don’t know, but we must go back. We cannot abandon our friends!”

Jakurian wanted nothing more. “Do you still have the talisman?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then we go on. That is our duty. Pantheren would say as much.”

Just then, faint on a night breeze, there came a chilling howl out of the north. The howl repeated itself, and was answered by several more. Jakurian asked, “Was that a sorcerer’s lamentation?”

“You know that is the baying of arowl.”

He urged the horses to a faster walk. “Arowl ahead and sorcerers behind. Have you a spell to hide us?”

“There is not enough time to summon the hunter’s veil unless...” Resolve entered her voice: “I may not be able to hide both horses. Will you let me ride behind you?”

“Come.” He held out his arm to help her climb over, and then he took the supply sack from her saddle. “Lilya is a sweet mare, but if we have to sacrifice her to the arowl before this night is over, so be it. Are you ready?”

“A moment.”

She took the talisman from its case. “Édan could hide many men at once. I will try to borrow some of his power to hide the two of us.”

Jakurian set the horses walking swiftly toward the southwest while Lanyon balanced behind him, chanting softly as she held Édan’s arrow across her lap.

Meanwhile, the howls of the arowl pack were drawing closer. Jakurian told himself it was just chance. The beasts could not have found their scent already—and yet he felt himself hunted.

After a time, a current stirred within the Mere. He felt the unseen force flow past him. Not long after, his eyesight began to trouble him. His horse, Vero, moved steadily beneath him, yet sometimes when he glanced down at Vero’s muscular neck, it did not seem to be there. Then he would reach out for what he could not see, and Vero’s steamy neck would appear again... but his own hand he could not perceive. If he raised that hand up before his tired eyes, he would see its silhouette... but in another moment it would fade away again.

“Arowl and sorcerers,” he whispered. How sweet the Wild would be if it contained neither!

Just then, a great howling cacophony erupted behind them, not a quarter mile away. Lanyon’s chant went on, unwavering, but Vero trembled. Lilya pulled back, snorting and fighting her lead. When Jakurian turned to sooth her, she shimmered on the edge of visibility. All around him the shapes of the night were solid, but the two horses wavered, as if undecided in their existence.

The yammering of the arowl bore down on them. Lilya shook her head and fought to break free. Vero’s hide was wet and shivering. Jakurian knew this by sound and by feel. He could not see the horses. He felt as if he rode on a memory of wind and speed. He felt as if he wrestled with ghosts.

“Lanyon!” he whispered. “The arowl are upon us. We must flee.”

Her chant did not waver, but she leaned against him and one arm went around his waist. “Go,” he whispered to Vero and the horse leaped away, running flat-out in the darkness with Lilya racing beside him.

Jakurian could not see the horses. He could hardly hear them. The pounding of their hooves was faint, and grew fainter still, until it vanished altogether. Even the fallen leaves kicked up in their wake fell back into place, leaving no trail for the arowl to follow. No longer did he ride a horse. He hurtled through the woodland on the back of a spirit that bore him soaring above the leaves and mossy stones, and nothing in the night could discern his passage.

The baying of the arowl fell far behind.

After a time he reined the horses in. Lilya snorted in exhaustion, and Vero’s chest heaved. Lanyon too was drained. Her chant had ceased sometime during their flight and now she leaned against Jakurian. “Help me down,” she said in a dry-throated whisper. “Let me walk.”

Jakurian slipped to the ground. He saw her as a faint, ghost-like being atop a ghost horse, but when he lifted her down, her weight was real.

She knelt on the damp ground. He could see her only if he looked half-away. She returned the arrow to its case. Then she stood again, and looked around. “What is this place?”

Jakurian had let the horses find their own way in the night. They had come to a stream that slid quietly through the woodland. Its silvery waters wound around large stones blackened with moss. A neat turf made up the banks. Not far to the south, he heard a strange bird chirping. “Lanyon, there is something amiss here. Climb atop Lilya now, and be ready.”

Lanyon did as she was told, while Jakurian returned to Vero’s back. They waited for the peril to reveal itself.

The sky was clear. The stars bright. No wind tossed the branches. Yet Jakurian saw shadows moving beneath the trees. Lilya saw them too. She danced nervously. Vero turned and snorted. Jakurian took up his bow, fitting an arrow to the string, and all movement ceased beneath the trees. Jakurian listened, but he heard only the murmur of the water, and the renewed chirping of the night bird calling to a companion that answered from somewhere upstream.

Then a breeze came sighing down above the water. Lilya did not like the messages it carried. She reared with a terrified whinny, but Lanyon kept her seat, and would not let her run.

All at once the night was shocked by a great outcry of men’s voices. The shouts came from upstream, beyond the shadows where Jakurian suspected the pack to be. “For Samokea! For Samokea!” they cried.

Goaded by this challenge, the arowl revealed themselves with an explosion of baying and barking among the trees. Some threw themselves on their attackers; but others remembered their original prey. These plunged toward Jakurian. He met them with a flurry of arrows and then he seized his spear. Vero could be still no longer. He burst into a gallop, charging the nearest arowl. Jakurian slew it with his spear, and then felled another. A third burst into flame, casting a blinding light through the woodland, and sending harsh shadows lancing between the trees. The air was full of the hiss of arrows, the shouts of men, the stink of burning flesh, and the blood-curdling howls of the arowl—but then the howls were extinguished, and only the voices of men remained.

Keeping his spear ready, Jakurian moved his horse closer to Lanyon.

Alongside the stream, a cautious distance away, there stood a pale, slender warrior. In one hand he held what looked to be the smooth, silvery head of an Inyomere of the Water, be it lake, or stream, or high mountain pool. In the other he carried a spear, though he gripped it casually, and did not seem to offer Jakurian any challenge. He did not have Jakurian’s height, or the breadth of his shoulders, but even just in standing he had a dangerous grace... like a leopard Jakurian had once seen, south of Habaddon. “That is a wicked object your woman carries,” he said softly. “It has a dreadful weight within the Mere.”

Lanyon answered him. “Sir, why do you waylay us? What harm have you brought to our friends?”

“None that will last, but your own well-being is less certain. The ghosts know who you are, Lanyon Kyramanthes, and they do not love you. They clamor at me to leave you in the forest for the arowl—but this does not seem right to me. You were first to remind us of our duties to one another, and your concern is for your friends. These are not signs of a wicked heart.”

“Be cautious, sir!” she answered sharply. “It is not always easy to perceive evil.” But then her voice gentled. “Still I mean no harm to you or any here. As for your ghosts, I knew some of them in life and I have no fear of confronting them in death.”

The pale warrior smiled. “I called your horses to me—I do not want you or your companion to be food for the arowl—but I don’t think I can hold you against your will. So I ask you respectfully—as perhaps I should have done first—to come with us and be safe, for there are more arowl than these in Beyna Forest.”

“And our friends?”

“You will meet them again in our keep.”

Chapter 21

Marshal wakened to deep night, and the powerful withers of a horse beneath him. His head nodded and swayed with each step the horse took. His mouth was so dry he could not swallow. Someone rode behind him, lean arms embracing him so he would not fall from the saddle.

With astonishment he realized death had rejected him.

He remembered the assault of the beast people and the dart that struck him in the neck. He remembered falling. He had felt himself drawn down into lightless waters that froze his breath and stilled his heart.

Yet he lived. He could not doubt it, for termites tunneled within his skull and his belly felt at once knotted and dead, and aboil with a sickly heat. Such evil had entered into him that he knew he must still be in the world.

Marshal groaned softly. The arms that held him tightened against his belly, but that slight touch was more than he could bear. He thrashed and broke his captor’s grip. He threw himself from the horse, and the next he knew he was on his hands and knees in the forest mulch, retching until the evil that was in him began to fade.

When he grew quiet, someone wiped his face with a moist cloth. “You will not escape into death tonight, Marshal.”

It was the voice of the wraith woman who had commanded him to come down from his horse. She spoke to him intimately, her mouth just inches from his ear. “I heard your heart stop, but I commanded it to beat again. Here, take a little water.”

He drank thirstily. In the distance he heard the howl of a single arowl, and then the baying chorus of a hunting pack.

“It was Gonly’s dart that brought you down,” she said. “I have been told he is my cousin—the son of my father’s brother—but I don’t believe it. He’s too much the fool and I hope the arowl take him before another season goes by.”

“You must not say such things,” Marshal warned her hastily, his voice hoarse and low. “Especially of your kin.”

“I say what is true. There would have been no harm if you had only been pricked like your companions, but Gonly made sure his dart struck deep in your neck and all its poison swirled between your heart and your head.”

A breeze sighed past them. Marshal’s head began to clear. “The evil is leaving me.” He could just see the milky blur of her face, the gleam of starlight in her pale hair. “Ma’am, where is my cousin, Kit? Where is Pantheren?”

“They have gone ahead with the others. They wait for you in the keep. I could not match their pace, and still keep you in the saddle.”

“You stayed behind to care for me?”

“Gonly would have left you and taken the horse. He cursed me when I called on your heart to beat again. May the arowl take him.”

Marshal flinched at the harshness of her words. “I wonder that your own heart may be so warm and so cold at once.”

“You are mistaken. It has ever been cold.”

“It does not seem so to me. Will you tell me your name?”

“I am Luven, and my brother is Zavoy, who is the Chieftain of Samokea.”

“Of Samokea?” Marshal echoed in surprise.

“Samokea is his by birthright,” she said bitterly. “Now come. Get up. We must be off before the arowl discover us.”

He made himself stand up. He went to the horse. It was his horse, but all the weapons had been taken from the saddle. He looked around at Luven. She carried neither spear nor sword nor bow.

“Hurry, Marshal. You must climb back onto the horse yourself. I cannot lift you.”

“How are we to defend ourselves?”

“By swift flight. We must reach the keep or we will die.”

“You feared I would attack you,” he realized. “So you sent the weapons on.”

“You’re stronger than I am. Will you take back your horse and flee?”

“I would not abandon you to die.”

“You would be a fool to do so. You need me, Marshal. Without weapons, you have no defense against the arowl and only I can show you the way to the keep. Remember that. Now climb up. We have tarried too long, and the arowl are hungry.”

He hauled himself into the saddle and she climbed up behind him. Now he had the reins, so he set the horse walking. “Where are we going?”

“Just this way.”

“You were wrong to attack us, Luven.”

“That is still to be judged.”

“I do not submit myself to your judgment, but I will see you safely to your keep.”

“I would have us both safe. Can this horse go no faster?”

“If you would go faster, then hold onto me.”

He waited until her arms were tight around his waist. Then he gave the horse his heels.

~~~

Luven guided them by starlight into the western hills, even as the baying of the arowl drew ever nearer. Listening to their lamentations, Marshal was sure they followed a scent; yet they were too far north to have found his track.

“Luven, what became of Jakurian and Lanyon? I saw them flee from our—” He caught himself. He would not say battle. The people did not bring war against the people. “...from our meeting.”

“Zavoy is seeking them. If they are lucky, they will be found.”

Before long the trees came to an end. There was a span of open ground, and then a precipitous cliff rising black against the stars. Marshal reined in the horse. He could see nowhere that they might go, and he was reluctant to leave the shelter of the trees.

“Why do you stop?” Luven asked him. “We are nearly safe. Ride on.”

“There is no shelter here.”

“Ride closer and I’ll show it to you. Our keep lies within a great cavern, but you won’t see the entrance until you’ve come upon it.”

So Marshal urged the horse into the open. But as he drew near the cliff, a chill touched his heart. “There are ghosts here.”

“They keep the watch,” Luven said. She pointed to the cliff looming above them. Against its black face Marshal spied even blacker slits that looked to be narrow windows. Framed in one, he saw the gleam of a luminous face. A shiver ran through him. Luven said, “Our ghosts know of all that passes, both here and in the forest. They told us of your coming.”

“Your dead do not depart?”

She lowered her voice. “It’s the old ghosts of the Citadel who will not leave.” But though Marshal pressed her, she would say no more on it. “Come, let us walk from here. The tunnel is low, and I think it will be better to lead the horse.”

Marshal still did not see an entrance, until Luven took a step into what seemed to him solid stone. Then he realized there was a narrow opening, as black as the windows above them. He reached out to feel its edge. “It’s dark within,” Luven warned him, “but the floor is smooth. There’s nothing to trip you, and there is light farther inside.”

So Marshal went forward, while the horse followed with tentative steps. The clip-clopping of its hooves echoed against hard stone. The walls felt very close.

Before long the tunnel turned back on itself and he was able to make out a glimmer somewhere ahead. He feared they were coming upon a ghost, but then the tunnel turned again, and the light grew brighter. It welled up from a hollow stone holding a pool of luminous light, like the witch light ignited by the ghost sorcerer.

The tunnel ended, and they came out into a cavern that was shallow from front to back, though very tall. The floor had been smoothed so that it had the appearance of a courtyard. On the other side of this narrow space was another witch light that cast its cold illumination on the face of a keep that rose three stories to the cavern’s jagged roof. The keep was fitted into the cavern so that there were no side walls, and the roof of the cavern was also the roof of the keep. Windows looked out onto the courtyard from the upper floors. Most of these were dark, but those few that had light glowed with the same ghostly illumination as the stones.

Marshal turned to look behind him. Above—as high as the third story of the keep—were the narrow windows to the outside, filled with stars. A ledge passed beneath them. It could be reached by a notch ladder cut into the rock, but also by a swinging bridge that spanned the gulf to the keep’s third floor. Standing motionless on the ledge was the ghost he had seen from outside. Its back was turned to them, and it did not acknowledge them in any way as it kept its gaze fixed on the forest.

Save for the ghost, no one was about, and all was silent within the cavern.

“Luven, you said Kit and Pantheren would be here.”

“Let us look inside.”

The keep’s heavy wooden doors were shut but not barred, for when Luven pushed on one it swung open onto a hall illuminated by the warm light of a natural fire burning on a wide hearth. Leather chairs and soft furs were scattered near the fireplace. A long table stood at the hall’s center, and tapestries on the walls eased the hardness of the stone. Luven said that Marshal should bring the horse inside. It nickered a greeting that was answered by the two horses Kit and Pantheren had ridden, for they were tethered at the back of the hall.

Marshal took his horse to meet them. At first there was no one about. Then a girl of perhaps thirteen years, emerged from a farther room that Marshal guessed to be a kitchen. “Luven!” she called in delight. “You have brought still another horse!” She had eyes only for the animal, and did not notice Marshal in the shadows.

“Has Zavoy returned?” Luven asked her.

“No, he is gone to kill the witch.”

Marshal stepped forward, horrified at these words. “Luven, what does she mean? Your brother cannot mean to kill Lanyon!”

The girl fell back in terror at the sight of him. Never before that night had she seen strangers in her house. In high excitement, she had watched as Kit and Pantheren were brought in under guard and locked away. Gonly had given her warning: such men were dangerous! And now here was Marshal, with no guard around him. “Luven, will he kill us?”

“Lehe, he is a man, not an arowl.” Then she turned to Marshal. “Be calm, I beg you. Lehe has misspoken—”

“As have you! I don’t see Kit and Pantheren anywhere about. Was it only the horses you wanted to take?”

“Your kin are here!” Luven insisted. “Lehe, where are the men Gonly brought in?”

But Marshal had already stridden past her, in haste to find Kit and Pantheren. Lehe fell back with a scream. “Luven! Do not let him harm little Krispin!”

Marshal went first to the kitchen. It was warm and dark. A child slumbered in a crib, her face lit by a red flame from the stove. He stepped past, to look into a pantry. Then he came out again.

Luven met him. “Marshal, be calm.”

He looked past her, and his gaze lit on a narrow stairway near the horses. He bounded toward it. “Kit!” he shouted, as he ascended. “Pantheren! Are you here?” A faint voice answered from somewhere overhead. “Call out again that I may find you!”

A ghost appeared on the stairs, gleaming in familiar outline. With dread, Marshal recognized it as the sorcerer Renthian of Samokea. Still, he continued. The ghost said nothing, but as he drew near, it raised a hand. Marshal felt his heart grow cold. Dizziness came over him and he had to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling. Luven ran up to him. She placed herself between him and the sorcerer’s ghost. “You may not assail the living!” she cried. “Leave off or I will banish you.”

The ghost said nothing that Marshal could hear, but Luven spoke as if in answer to an argument. “He is of the people and you will not cause him harm! Now go! Find Zavoy and tell him I am safely in the keep.”

The ghost made her a short bow. Then it drifted away through the stone wall. Marshal felt his heart warm again. “Come,” Luven said, taking his hand. “Lehe has told me where to find them.”

At the top of the stairs was a passage lit by a single witch light. Marshal heard Kit’s muffled voice call to him from behind a heavy wooden door. He pulled the latch and heard the sound of a bolt sliding, but the door would not open. Luven said, “Gonly has sealed it, but his spells are like a child’s.” She placed her hand on the latch and spoke in whispered syllables. Marshal heard a sound like an escaping breath. Then the door swung inward.

Kit bounded into the hallway. “Marshal! I thought you—” He saw Luven. The joy that had been on his face turned to fury. He seized her and shoved her hard against the wall; he pressed his forearm against her throat so that she could not speak. “Marshal, I thought you were dead,” he said coldly. “Killed by the companions of this pale wraith.”

“Kit, leave her! I am alive. She has seen to it that I live. Do not give into evil!”

“All these people are evil,” Kit said, but he released her. Luven turned away, her hand at her throat as she gasped and coughed.

“They have forgotten that it is the way of the people to help one another,” Marshal conceded. “Though I think they have been alone a long time.”

Pantheren limped to the door. His face was bruised, and there was a cut on his cheek. “Why are there no warriors here?” he asked, as he looked up and down the hall.

Quickly, Marshal told him all he knew.

“So they brought us here and left again to hunt Jakurian and Lanyon.” Pantheren looked at Luven, but before she could speak, a clatter arose downstairs. The horses whinnied, and a chatter of excited voices announced a sudden homecoming.

“Come,” Luven said, a hand still pressed to her bruised throat. “My brother is returned.”

Chapter 22

From the stairs Pantheren saw Lanyon among the pale warriors, and Jakurian was with her. He called out to her, and they met in an embrace at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you all right?” he asked her anxiously.

“We are well. And all of you—?”

“No lasting damage,” Kit assured her, but his jest did not disguise his sullen fury.

The pale warriors had put their spears aside and removed their masks and their enchantments. Pantheren was surprised to see as many women as men among their number. All were rail-thin, with hair so light in color it was nearly white, and beautiful, delicate faces. So similar were they to one another that they might have been brothers and sisters. Their clothes were all in shades of gray and they looked young, in their teens and twenties, save for one woman who appeared a few years older, and another, who might have been close to Pantheren in age. The only child he saw was the girl, Lehe, though Marshal had reported another youngster in the kitchen. Pantheren made a quick count of everyone present and found their number to be twenty-nine.

One of the young men stepped forward. Pantheren remembered him by the mask he carried clipped to his belt—it was the face of the Inyomere of the Water. Luven met him, taking his arm. “This is my brother, Zavoy, who is the Chieftain of Samokea.”

Kit was in no mood to hear such claims, nor to heed Pantheren’s restraining hand. “Samokea has had no chieftain since Édan.”

Zavoy answered this in a soft, measured voice. “Samokea is diminished, and my authority does not extend far, but I will have it here.”

“If so, then defend us!” This demand came from one of Zavoy’s own warriors, who stepped up then to air his anger. He was a man of no great height, but he was broad in shoulder and possessed a frightening aspect, for half his face was ravaged with scars.

Zavoy did not even look at him, but instead addressed his guests. “That is my cousin Gonly, whose fear has led him to speak out of turn.”

But Gonly did not yield. “It is not disrespect, Zavoy, to ask that you defend Samokea against the witch that brought on our downfall. The ghosts of the Citadel remember her. She is the Kyramanthes woman!” And as he said this he flung out his arm to point at Lanyon, so that his fingers—still stained with arowl blood—were but inches from her face.

At this affront she turned away and Pantheren moved to shelter her, but Zavoy was faster: he seized Gonly’s wrist and twisted it, so that Gonly was forced to step back to keep his balance. Startled cries were heard on all sides, and rebukes against Gonly. In his soft voice, Zavoy said, “I have promised this woman safety in our home and I will not be made a liar.”

Sweat gleamed on Gonly’s cheeks, but he didn’t cry out or back down. “The ghosts know her,” he insisted.

“What do they know? They can conjure no evidence of guilt. I have heard only desperate guesses.”

“Her existence is evidence enough! She has cheated death! She still lives after all these generations, while our lives rarely see thirty years. How is such a wonder possible except by the intervention of Siddél?”

“That is one question of many that I would ask. Be at peace, my cousin, and be assured that I will defend you when need requires.” Only then did he release Gonly, and after taking a moment to gather himself, he turned again to his guests. “We are all weary. Let us refresh ourselves with a meal, and then you will tell us of yourselves and how you came to be in Samokea.”

Pantheren bowed to him. “And we would hear your own history, sir, for we have long believed that no one survived the fall of the Citadel, who did not reach the Glycian.”

~~~

They gathered around the hearth, among pillows, furs and soft furnishings. The company was close and warm, the more so, because in the shadows beyond the firelight the gleam of ghosts could be seen, outnumbering the people. They stayed well back, but Pantheren still could feel the chill of their presence.

A meal was made of dried fish and baked potatoes, with spring water as their only drink. Pantheren was given a seat in a leather arm chair that he drew back into the shadows beside the hearth. Lanyon sat on the floor between Jakurian and Kit, a little closer to the light. Kit was nodding in the firelight, half-asleep, but Marshal, who sat apart from them, was wakeful. Pantheren did not like the way his attention was fixed on the comings and goings of Luven as she helped in the kitchen. He liked it less when the last of the dishes were cleared away and Luven took a seat very near to Marshal.

Once more he made a count of the wraith people, and this time he numbered them at thirty-one, including Luven and the baby from the kitchen.

“Are you wondering if there are more of us?” Zavoy asked him. The young chieftain leaned back in his own chair, his weary gaze studying Pantheren as all the small conversations around them fell into silence. “Do you ask yourself if there might be more of us asleep in the rooms upstairs? Or maybe we have a second keep a day’s walk away?”

“This cannot be all of you,” Pantheren answered.

Zavoy smiled, but it was bitter. “There are no others. We are the last of the people still alive in the north. But the Long War goes on, doesn’t it? That you are here tells me it is so. Please speak. Tell us of yourselves, War Father Pantheren. We know your names, but little else about you. Is it Hallah that you call home?”

“Indeed no.” Pantheren stood, so that he might address all who were gathered there. “Both myself and Jakurian are men of Habaddon.”

Zavoy looked on him in astonishment. A stir ran through the assembly, and many were filled with doubt. “Habaddon is fallen!” a young warrior insisted. “All the ghosts have said it is so.” Another cried, “Habaddon was ever a lesser fortress than the Citadel! It is impossible that it still stands.” And a third demanded to know, “Does Jahallon live?”

“Jahallon does live!” Pantheren answered them. “And Habaddon did not fall with the Citadel of the Snow Chanter. Habaddon stood before ever the Citadel was made, and to this day its great walls have never been breached.”

Zavoy arose then, and looked past his kin to where the ghost of the sorcerer Renthian stood among the other specters. At first he appeared to listen, but then he answered softly, “I know when a living man does not speak the truth. It is only the dead that are hard to read.”

He turned again to Pantheren. “Forgive us, War Father. The ghosts have ever assured us Habaddon must have fallen in the same assault that destroyed the Citadel. That it has not is wondrous news, though bitter too, for it makes our own failure more stark.”

“I cannot make the truth sweeter.”

Zavoy sat down again, and for several seconds he was lost in thought. Then he remembered himself, and he attended again to Pantheren. “What of Kit and Marshal? You have not named them as men of Habaddon.”

“That is because they are Clan Samoket, though both were born south of the Glycian.”

This ignited another flurry of questions, but this time Zavoy called for patience. “Tell us the story of Samokea as you know it, War Father, and I promise we will hold our questions until you are through.”

So Pantheren complied, beginning the tale on the day Jahallon brought Lanyon home to the Citadel with her newborn daughter and her son who was not yet two. He told the story as Lanyon had revealed it at Kesh, disclosing the sacrifice of her children to Édan’s ambition, the absence of the watch upon the walls, and Siddél’s assault, when chance turned against Édan and nothing went as he expected. “In the end it was Jahallon who rallied the survivors and who led them south where their descendants remain.”

Then the Samokeäns of the Cavern looked on Kit and Marshal as brethren, and for a few minutes they questioned Pantheren on the names and numbers of those who had escaped the Citadel, but it was long ago, and there was little Pantheren could tell them.

Next Zavoy looked at Lanyon and said, “I know that this talisman—made at such great cost—is even now in your possession.”

Kit and Jakurian grew tense, while Lanyon, who was between them, met Zavoy’s gaze with wary eyes. She had not removed her coat, despite her proximity to the fire, and she still had the talisman in its case, strapped to her back.

“I have said you are safe here,” Zavoy reminded her. “Though I would like to know how it is that time has left you untouched. Indeed, there is that about you which reminds me of those few Inyomere I have seen.”

These words did not please her. She answered him shortly, “You might see more of the Inyomere if you did not hunt them and take their skins for masks.”

This drew angry murmurs, but Zavoy was unruffled. “Will you not tell me?”

It was easy to be confounded by his gentle voice. Lanyon seemed puzzled by her own anger. She answered him in a humbled tone. “I made a spell that carried me through time... but with the talisman in my hands it went awry and was more powerful by far than I intended.”

These were sorcerers, but not one had ever imagined such a thing could be and they responded in wonder and disbelief, but she would say no more on it. So Pantheren reclaimed the narrative and he spoke of the Snow Chanter and her return to the Wild—but this was too much for Gonly. He met Pantheren’s words with dark laughter. “These are children’s tales, and not to be believed!” But he was hushed by many voices.

Pantheren judged the moment had come. “The Snow Chanter will not forgive Siddél nor overlook the suffering of her beloved Samokeän people. She would see the Wild restored, and to this end she has given all her blessing to Lanyon Kyramanthes. For Zavoy is correct—Lanyon possesses the talisman. But time is pressing. It is our purpose to find the Storm Lair as soon as may be, and there to use this wicked spell as it was intended, against Siddél himself—to break the monster that has broken the Wild.”

~~~

The people of the cavern were greatly affected by all they had heard, and while they were moved with wonder, there was also sadness, anger, and despair. Zavoy arose from his chair. “War Father, you cannot imagine the grief you bring us... and the bitter hope.” He beckoned to his sister. “Luven, come.” She arose and went to him. “It’s our turn. Luven, you will tell our own history to our guests.”

In the inconstant light of the fire she appeared wan and insubstantial, half a ghost herself, but her voice was strong. “It is well known that Clan Samoket was created in the union of Jahallon’s last son, Samoket, with the Inyomere, Tayeraisa the Snow Chanter.” Here her troubled gaze sought Pantheren. “If it is true our far mother has returned to the Wild, then we rejoice, for every man and woman of Samokea can claim descent from someone among Samoket’s many children.

“Still, the title of chieftain is held by only one in each generation. It is not always father to child, but Édan became our chieftain when he was sixteen, after his own father was taken by the arowl.

“In those days there was great friendship between Samokea and the last warriors of Clan Kyramanthes, who were ever the fiercest fighters on the battlefield. So when Inder, who was then Chieftain of Kyramanthes, called on Édan to safeguard the women of his household if he should not return from battle, Édan readily agreed, never suspecting the cost.

“In that spring Édan went to Ohtangia to fulfill his promise, and there he met Lanyon Kyramanthes... who was Inder’s daughter.” Luven seemed suddenly unsure of herself, but Zavoy told her, “Tell it as we were taught, for we have no other excuse for our rough greeting.”

Luven nodded. “Lanyon Kyramanthes was only eleven but she was a child-witch of great power who was secretly tutored by Siddél—”

Here Kit started to rise from the floor, but Lanyon caught his arm and whispered, “Let us hear it all.”

Luven straightened her shoulders. “Our history says that Lanyon Kyramanthes beguiled Édan so that ever after he would have no other woman, and in time they were married, and they had a child. But she regretted her choice, and when Édan was gone to campaign against the arowl, she left the Citadel and returned to Habaddon where she had lived for many years—but Jahallon would not let her stay.”

Pantheren glanced at Lanyon—and was startled to see her sitting with her head bowed against her hand. So he knew there was something of truth in Luven’s story.

“But by her betrayal, Édan’s heart was changed. When he saw her again, he perceived her wickedness and rebuked her, and said he would have her no longer as his wife.” Here, Lanyon looked up again, and there was such fierce anger on her face that Pantheren half-rose, fearing what she might do... but she only closed her eyes again, while Luven went on speaking. “A great wrath came over her. She attacked Édan and drew away his strength, and Siddél came at her summons, and murdered him.” Luven turned to Pantheren. “This is the history of Édan that we have been taught. It’s why we mistrusted you.”

“It is false,” Pantheren said, “as you have already heard.”

Luven lifted her chin. “I have only done as my brother asked, that you may understand us better. It is not my pleasure to say such things about a woman who sits here before me.”

“Nor is it my pleasure to hear these things recounted,” Lanyon said bitterly. “It is a degradation to be required to deny them. My honor is spent. But I will make the denial anyway, so that no one here may later say I left any doubt. I did not betray my husband, I did not murder him, and I did not make alliance with Siddél who is forever my enemy. I am guilty of returning to Habaddon that year when Édan was gone away. How different the world would be now if I had refused to let Jahallon take me home!”

“The world is as it is,” Pantheren said gently. “At least Jahallon was there, and many hundreds came safely to the Glycian.” Then he turned to Luven. “How is it your ancestors escaped the Citadel and yet did not go with Jahallon?”

“They were not at the Citadel. Our family lived in the Armory Peaks, where we worked the iron quarries, and forged the weapons that kept our armies strong. We are Édan’s closest kin, descendant of his younger brother Evron. Our home was far from the Citadel, but even on that accursed night we were not forgotten!

“A dove was sent to us. It arrived in the early morning, and by the message it carried we learned Édan was dead and the Citadel overrun. We made ready, for none doubted the arowl would come.” Her voice softened. “Come they did, in numbers that had never been seen before. We fought them, but they were too many. We knew we must flee, but Habaddon was too far. So we retreated over the mountains.”

All was silent in the hall, save for the crackling of the fire, and the restless swish of a horse’s tail. “Less than ninety survived that terrible journey,” Luven said. “We lived only because the blood of the Snow Chanter is in us. Our sorcery kept us warm in the snow and ice, and let us practice hiding and illusion when the arowl came across our trail. Many generations have passed since then, and still we live by the arts of hiding and illusion. We leave no trace of our presence in the forest, and we wear the arowl masks so the beasts will believe they fight other arowl, and will have no reason to linger, and seek us out.

“We hold it as our duty to hunt the arowl, for they are an abomination within the Wild. Yet as the years pass, our numbers dwindle.

“We have tried to escape this place. Three times we have put aside the council of the ghosts and set out for the south, on the slender hope that we could make our way to Hallah—for Habaddon we believed gone—but each time we were overwhelmed by the arowl and forced to turn back.

“The Citadel is fallen, and Samokea is reduced to the thirty-one members of our household who are gathered in this hall. Still, we remember who we are, and in each generation we name one among us to be our chieftain. Zavoy has that honor now, and perhaps he will be the last, but while any of us live, Samokea itself is not fallen.”

She returned to her seat, her face downcast. Zavoy spoke next. “We ask that you forgive us our rough greeting. We know now that we have been misled in many ways for many years. There is not much of comfort that we have to offer you, but what there is, is yours. I pray there may be peace between us.”

Chapter 23

Zavoy slept little that night, and when he arose he went at once to the library, where he took out The Journal of Days that had been kept by his people since they crossed over the mountains. His father had never learned to write, and had assigned the keeping of the book to another, but Zavoy had learned reading and writing at an early age, and The Journal was his passion. By the blue glow of a witch light he began to chronicle the past night’s remarkable events, writing in tiny characters to make the most of each page of precious paper.

After a time the door opened and thirteen-year old Lehe peeped inside. Zavoy smiled. Lehe was his cousin on his mother’s side. She did not care for the hunt, and rarely went outside the cavern, but like Zavoy she loved to read the old manuscripts, and hear the words of the far fathers and far mothers of long ago. “Everyone is still asleep downstairs,” she said with a pout.

“Come in then, and read.”

Zavoy sat at a table to do his writing, but Lehe preferred a cushion on the floor so that she could lean against the warmth of the chimney that carried smoke up from the hearth in the great hall. Lehe read a bound manuscript that she held balanced in her lap, and the occasional rustle of a turning page became a quiet accent to the scratch of Zavoy’s quill—but at last he looked up from his work. “Lehe, I have decided you must keep The Journal of Days when I am gone.”

She gave him a dark look. “That cannot be. It will be your son who keeps The Journal, when he becomes the next chieftain.”

Zavoy was startled. He forgot sometimes that Lehe was still a child. “I don’t think so,” he said gently. Their people were so few in number and their kinship so hopelessly intertwined that no marriage prospect remained among them. It was not a subject they spoke of often, but their rules of kinship were strictly enforced, and in the Journal of Days were recorded terrible stories of banishment and death for those who had turned to their cousins or other close kin for love. “Lehe, you know I will have no wife, and without a wife I will have no son. You will keep the journal after me, and—”

A ghost took shape between them. Zavoy was in a fluster as it delivered its silent message. Then it was gone again. Lehe’s mischievous expression did nothing to put him at ease. “You have been waiting for Édan’s witch to awaken! You set a ghost to watch her!”

“You should not call her that. Her name is Lanyon.”

“And do you like her very much?” Lehe wondered with an arch look.

Zavoy laughed nervously. “I should not dare too! As you said, she is Édan’s woman.”

“Édan is long dead and gone from the world,” Lehe pointed out in her practical way—and Zavoy had to agree that this was true.

~~~

Pantheren awoke with a start.

He had slept near the hearth with his companions around him. Most of the Samokeäns of the Cavern had also slept in the great hall. That was their custom, and only a few would retire to the upstairs rooms. The ghosts kept watch.

Pantheren lay still, listening. The hall was dark, lit only by coals dusted with ash. From around him came the soft snores and vague stirrings of people asleep. He felt confused, uncertain if had slept for one hour or many. What had awakened him?

He stood up, counting the shapes around him: Jakurian, Marshal, Kit... but Lanyon? She was gone, her blanket left draped against her field bag.

Stepping past the sleepers, he went to look in the kitchen. There he found an older woman playing a game of blocks with a small child. She smiled when she saw him and arose. “Good day, War Father,” she whispered.

He answered her softly in turn. “Good day to you, if indeed the day has come.”

Her smile grew brighter even if the light did not. “The sun is near noon outside though its joyful light does not reach us here. Would you have some breakfast?”

“I would know where Lanyon Kyramanthes has gone.”

“She awoke only a little while ago, and like you, she missed the sun’s light. If you would find her, climb the stairs to the top of the keep and cross the bridge. She is at the windows.”

Pantheren thanked her, but she remembered there was more to say. “War Father, Beyna Forest is overrun with arowl this day. Zavoy has said no one is to leave the cavern.”

He bowed to her, and went quietly to the stairs.

~~~

Lanyon was illuminated by a beam of sunlight spilling through the cliff window closest to the bridge, but she drew back into the shadows at Pantheren’s approach, until she saw it was him. “War Father.” With a meaningful glance she made sure he took note of the ghost sentry at the far end of the ledge.

Pantheren joined her at the window. From that vantage he could see the meadow at the foot of the cliff, the forest beyond, and a haze of green that might have been the plains far to the east. All was still, but it was not quiet. Up from the trees came the hunting cries of a multitude of arowl—some near, some distant. The clamor set his nerves on edge. Lanyon said, “There are a hundred arowl out there, by the sound. I don’t know if they pursue our scent or the scent of the horses, but they are mad with hunger.”

Pantheren nodded. “I was suspicious when I heard we were not allowed outside. Now, I understand.”

“Do you?” She moved closer to him and her voice grew very soft. “War Father, I don’t wish to linger her. I am afraid. Zavoy has promised our safety, but these people are Édan’s closest kin and not all are willing to forget the teachings of their ghosts.”

“Patience. We will not be here long.”

“I want to leave tonight.”

This startled him. “You fear these people more than the hunger of these arowl?”

“Yes. Some among them anyway, and their ghosts even more.”

The chance creaking of a rope made them both look around, to find that Zavoy had just stepped from the swinging bridge. He walked with the lightness of a cat. “Forgive me, I’ve startled you. I hope you slept well.”

“Very well,” Pantheren said, “thanks to the security of your keep. But how is it the arowl have come overnight in such numbers?”

Zavoy shrugged. “It’s their way, and while the day lasts we can do nothing to stop them howling in Beyna Forest. But when darkness falls and they are soothed to sleep—then we will hunt them, and punish them for their trespass.”

Lanyon looked up at Pantheren. “Then we should leave tonight, when the hunt has commenced and the arowl are distracted.”

It was Zavoy’s turn to be startled. “We cannot make the way safe for you all in one night!”

“The way will never be safe.”

“That is true, but while the arowl are always plentiful, they are not always in such overwhelming numbers. Lanyon Kyramanthes, the ghosts acknowledge your magic is powerful, but even you—”

Lanyon turned away.

“Lanyon? Have I offended you? That was not my intention.”

She would not look at him as she answered, “Do your ghosts still argue against me?”

Heat touched Zavoy’s cheeks. “They are ghosts,” he said helplessly. “They are only memories.”

Lanyon turned again to Pantheren. “What shall we do, War Father?”

He shook his head, unhappy with their choices. “Let us be patient. If we hunt the arowl tonight, tomorrow they may be gone from the forest. Then we’ll be free to leave.”

~~~

At the dinner hour, Zavoy stood before his people and announced a night hunt. Marshal, Kit and Jakurian were refreshed from their sleep and at once they volunteered, but Pantheren said that one of them must stay with Lanyon in the keep. The Samokeäns of the Cavern were bemused by this, especially the women. They asked Lanyon why she would want to stay behind, and if she did not like to hunt? “I am not accustomed to it,” she confessed, and though they tried to persuade her to venture out with them, she would not be convinced.

Oddly, Zavoy seemed impressed at her refusal. “It is well if you stay, and you are safer thus. My cousin Lehe will remain with you, for she also does not care for the hunt, and would rather look after her sister Krispin.”

Pantheren saw that Marshal, Kit and Jakurian were all determined to go, so he announced that he would be the one to stay with Lanyon. Zavoy insisted the keep was secure and Lanyon would need no guardian, but in the end he bowed to Pantheren and accepted his decision.

~~~

As Marshal was checking his weapons, Luven came and called over him the hunter’s veil, so that he would be hidden from the arowl. Zavoy did the same for Kit and Jakurian. It reminded Marshal of the time Lanyon had prepared them for a night hunt—only then they had hunted with Bennek and not Jakurian. To Marshal, that time seemed long ago.

The Samokeäns donned their costumes, but instead of calling the hunter’s veil, they called the enchantments that enlivened their masks. Marshal suffered a shiver of real fear as he looked at them, for though they spoke quietly together in the manner of the people, they looked so much like arowl his nerves were raw.

The ghosts of the cavern made perfect scouts. They could not be harmed by the arowl; the beasts did not even seem to perceive them. So they left ahead of the hunting party to scout the forest, reporting back to Zavoy that the arowl packs had come together at sunset, bedding down on a hillside not two miles from the keep. Zavoy gave the beasts time to settle, waiting until full dark before he set out. Half an hour later the Samokeäns were creeping through forest shadows, surrounding the arowl’s position.

Marshal’s placement was at the foot of the hill. Among the trees to his right he could just see a vague shimmer that he knew to be Kit. He could not see Jakurian, who held the next position over.

On Marshal’s other side there stalked a squat, black-furred, hideous arowl with the sagging lips of a monstrous dog. It was Luven of course. Her enchantment made the costume all too real. Marshal worried that in the heat of battle he would strike out against one of her kin. Again, he reminded himself to look for their hands. Despite their spells, their hands were always the hands of people.

A peaceful chirping came faintly from the hilltop. Marshal recognized Zavoy’s signal and readied his bow, though without Bennek at his side to describe the position of each arowl, he felt blind.

The chirping sounded again, just as he caught the foul scent of arowl on the night air. Luven froze. Marshal fitted an arrow to his bow and crept forward a few steps more. Beneath a shadowy thicket, starlight gleamed on gray fur. Moving only his eyes, he looked around and found two more targets. The chirping sounded a third time. Smiling, Marshal drew back his bowstring and let his arrow fly.

The hillside erupted in chaos. Howls and screams from the terrified arowl mixed with throaty shouts from the hunters. “There! On your right!” “Do not let it slip past you.” “A fine shot!” “Beware!”

Marshal dropped two arowl without taking a step. Three more erupted from the thickets. Two of these fell to arrows from Luven and Kit, but Marshal took the third. Then he bounded past the fallen beasts, pursuing the glimmer of another arowl fleeing up the hill. He caught up with it and killed it. Then he looked for another, but the beasts that remained all had the hands of people, and they spoke to one another in the giddy excitement of a successful hunt.

Was it over?

Surely not. At least one arowl was still alive. Its terrified yammering flooded the night, a high-pitched keening unlike anything Marshal had heard before. He set off to find it and in a few minutes he came to a thorn tree at the very summit of the hill. Several of the Samokeäns of the Cavern were gathered beneath its spreading branches. They had removed their masks and dismissed their enchantments.

At their center was Gorem, the eldest of the Samokeäns of the Cavern and Gonly’s wife. In her hand she held a long-bladed knife, dark with blood. Two arowl writhed at her feet. They snapped at the air, screeching in the horrible tones that made the night seem evil.

The hunter’s veil still concealed Marshal. No one noticed as he pulled an arrow from his quiver and set it to his bowstring. “Why do you leave them alive?” he asked.

They turned to look for him. One among them was a warrior named Halméd who was Lehe’s brother and Zavoy’s cousin too. “Marshal? Ah, there you are... tirvallian.” The spell of concealment fell away and Halméd saw the arrow in Marshal’s bow. “Stay your hand,” he said quickly. “There’s no need to fear these arowl. Gorem has cut their tendons. They cannot walk.”

“How were they taken alive?”

“With the darts,” Halméd said. Then he added merrily, “We don’t use our darts only to abuse travelers from the south.”

Marshal lowered his bow, even as a sickness stirred in his belly. “Why do you want them alive? Why don’t you kill them?”

“We would have them speak to us. Do you not question the arowl?”

“No! Never. They are beasts. They don’t speak.”

“They don’t speak with the words we use,” Halméd conceded. “Renthian, though, has learned their speech and he’s taught it to some of us. Gorem is especially skilled. Now and then, there are useful things to learn.”

Marshal could not imagine what useful knowledge an arowl might have to share, but Gorem set to her task. Kneeling beside the first beast—a weasel creature with a face too much like a man’s—she set to slicing its hide between its shoulder blades, as if to remove its skin while it was still alive. The beast howled out anew, and Gorem withdrew her blade until this fit subsided. Then she made sounds of spitting and growling, amid a string of guttural syllables. The arowl mewled as if in reply, a pain-filled lament. Then Gorem looked up, to meet Marshal’s shocked gaze. “Would you learn this skill, southerner? I will teach it to you, though it’s not for the faint of heart.”

Marshal shook his head. The arowl was mewling piteously. He could not abide the sound of it, or the foul smell of its blood. “No, ma’am, I will kill the arowl as I find them. This art I leave to you.”

She smiled at him as if he was a small child. Then she slashed again at the beast and its howls renewed. Marshal turned away. He did not want to see the arowl flayed by Gorem’s knife. He needed clean air to breathe, that did not stink of blood.

“Marshal!”

He jerked around, to see Kit climbing the hill with Jakurian and Luven.

Kit grinned. “Never have I seen a pack fall so quickly!”

Luven met him with a happy smile. “You took four! That’s one more than any of us can claim.”

But the keening was going on and on, and Marshal did not understand how they could be smiling. Kit drew near. “Marshal?” He peered at him in the starlight. “What is wrong? Has someone been wounded?”

“No one that I know. I’m going to look about.”

He set off, but Jakurian stayed him with a gentle hand. “Luven said the arowl are being questioned. It’s an ugly thing, but my father will do the same when chance allows. They don’t feel pain as we do.”

“I do not care for their pain!”

Jakurian nodded. “I too hated to be there when Jahallon would do this. It made me feel as if their evil was slipping inside me. Still, it is necessary.” Then he went on to the hilltop, and Kit followed after him, for he was curious.

Luven though, stayed behind. In a soft voice, she said, “I would stay to watch Gorem question these beasts, but there are fish traps in the southern creek that I have not tended in three days. Now that the night is made safe, I would visit them.”

Marshal felt a rush of concern. “Luven, we don’t know that all the arowl are killed. You shouldn’t go alone.”

“I won’t be alone if you come with me.”

Then he understood she was doing him a kindness. “I thank you, ma’am. It’s my honor to accompany you.”

Chapter 24

Pantheren kept watch at the cliff windows with his bow in hand, ready, if an arowl should dare to show itself. He listened to the silence of the forest, and when that was shattered by a dreadful din of panicked howls he listened for some clue to the outcome of the hunt. It wasn’t long before he heard, faintly, the triumphant shouts of the hunters. He dared to believe all was well—until another arowl voice lanced the night, a horrible, pitiable screeching. Lanyon gripped his arm, looking up at him for explanation, but he had none. “I don’t know what it means.”

There was a witch light in the courtyard below. It flickered as Pantheren spoke, and then it faded. Within seconds the cavern was filled with an inky darkness invulnerable to the starlight that fell in through the windows. Lanyon’s grip on his arm tightened. “There is an Inyomere here.”

“Where is it?”

“Below us... around us. Look there! Across the bridge—”

There was still a witch light in the hallway beyond the bridge, but it too was flickering, and in its fading light Pantheren saw black shadows gathering on the bridge, running together, congealing into an awful emptiness that rose up in the shape of a man. A man made of utter darkness.

The witch light went out.

Only starlight remained, but that did not reach even to the bridge. Pantheren drew his bow. “No, do not harm him!” Lanyon whispered. “Please. It is only Darkness, and even the darkness is a gift of the One who wakened us.”

“An Inyomere of Darkness?” Pantheren had never heard of such a thing. “Why is it here?”

“I don’t know.”

There was no wind that night, and as the frantic crying of the lone arowl fell into silence they were able to hear another noise from the forest—the soft crackling of careless footsteps hurrying through the autumn leaf litter.

Lanyon leaned out the window to see what it might be. Pantheren looked over her shoulder. His gaze was drawn to a blur of motion at the meadow’s edge. Lanyon saw it too. “Tirvallian!” she whispered, and veils fell away. Gonly stood revealed in the starlight, his spear in hand and his bow on his back. He was returning to the cavern alone.

He looked up at them, and though the light was faint and his face was shadowed, Pantheren sensed his hostility. He pulled Lanyon away from the window. “He is hunting you.”

The Darkness had crept up on them while they were distracted. Now it embraced them with an overpowering strength. Pantheren felt his arms pinned to his sides. His bow tumbled away. From Lanyon he heard a muffled cry. He struggled to free himself, but he could not. His feet left the ground. Then a deep voice spoke, more thought than sound as it said, “I will not die to please you! We must retreat.”

Pantheren felt himself carried over the swaying, creaking bridge. He could see nothing, and all his struggles did nothing to break the Dark’s embrace.

~~~

As the last of the arowl fell to the ambush, Zavoy chanced to see a shimmer, a shadow, slipping away into the forest. He pursued it, thinking it might be an especially clever arowl. It went swiftly, making a rustle of leaf litter as it sped toward the keep. He could not see its shape, even when it passed into starlight. He saw only the blur of its motion, but that was enough to recognize his rebellious cousin, Gonly.

Zavoy did not call out to him, but followed on cat-like feet. He needed to know how deep Gonly’s disloyalty ran.

Zavoy was still under the trees when the hunter’s veil protecting Gonly was stripped away. Following his cousin’s gaze, he glimpsed Lanyon framed by a cliff window. She withdrew into darkness as Gonly hurried across the meadow.

A foreboding came over Zavoy. He gave up his stealth. “Gonly!”

Gonly whipped around. Zavoy could not see his face, but the anger in his voice was plain to hear. “Zavoy! Go back to the hunt!” Turning away again, he went on toward the tunnel.

Zavoy was stunned. He sprinted to catch up. “Stop! Think what you’re doing. She is not our enemy.”

Gonly shouted over his shoulder. “You say that because you are not yourself. Go back to the hunt and let me settle it.”

“Gonly! Do not speak to me thus. You are not chieftain here.”

Gonly turned again to face Zavoy. “She has beguiled you. I’ve seen the way you watch her. You lust after her and I do not blame you. You are a man who has never known the pleasure of a woman. How you must hunger for someone—anyone—”

“You have said enough.”

“—but that is no reason to ignore the council of Renthian and the memories of the ghosts.”

Zavoy had learned from his father to always guard his authority. He’d given Gonly a fair chance to heed him; now he would force his obedience. He started after him—but the ghost Renthian appeared between them. Zavoy drew back, turning away from the ghost’s chilling presence. His thoughts became suddenly cloudy and confused. He pressed his palm to his forehead, trying to recall what he’d been doing.

Renthian spoke to him, You are not yourself. Trust in your cousin, and return to the hunt.

The counsel of the ghost brought a welcome clarity. Of course Zavoy should return to the hunt. Why had he been angry anyway? The arowl were slaughtered, the forest made safe at least for a little while. He should use the time to gather food, and forage for the horses. He started back toward the trees... but a vague worry was still nagging at him. Surely there was some task he’d left undone... ?

It came to him that Renthian would know. He turned to look for the ghost, but it was gone. In its absence he was able to perceive the spell that entwined him, and perceiving it, he was able to send it away.

He looked for Gonly, but his cousin had already disappeared inside the cavern.

~~~

Marshal followed Luven for a mile or more through the starlit forest. They often had to wade through weeds, but whenever they could they walked beneath thorn trees, because nothing grew there and the way was easy. The keening on the hilltop ended after a few minutes, and no other howl polluted the night, yet as they went Marshal suffered a disquieting sense that the land through which they passed was only pretending to be alive.

In its own way, Beyna Forest was a bustling place. In the daylight there were many birds and rabbits to be seen, and insects—too many insects!—but despite this abundance, the land felt unhappy and unkempt. Weeds grew rampant, and the thorn trees were all too common.

Yet as they neared the stream where Luven had her fish traps, Marshal’s unease began to lift. He looked on the water glittering in the starlight, and he felt glad. The stream ran clean, singing with a merry voice as it burbled past a neat lawn on its bank. “Ah, this is a lovely place.”

Luven was pleased. “It’s my favorite, and it’s far enough from the keep that no one else much likes to fish here.”

Marshal left his boots and weapons on the stream bank. He waded into the icy water to help Luven haul the traps ashore. There were three good-sized fish, but she was disappointed. “In years past, there would always be more.”

They sat on the bank for a time, listening to the voice of the stream. Marshal was all too aware of Luven close beside him. He found himself remembering the widows of Habaddon, and the one he had known in the summer past. Then he flushed, for Luven was a maiden, and surely she had her own lover who would be her husband soon.

“You do not say much, Marshal.”

“My little brother Bennek is the one for talking. He can’t sit three minutes without posing a question. But he is in Habaddon now.”

“Do you miss Habaddon? Do you wish you were there?”

Marshal shrugged. “Habaddon is not my home. I only stayed there for a time this past summer. My family keep is east of Habaddon, in Fathalia, on the southern shore of the Glycian. My father and his brother used to ride to Habaddon, to campaign with Jahallon against the arowl, but I was small then, and I stayed behind.”

“And did the women also ride with Jahallon, and bring war against the arowl?”

“No. The women stay within the keeps, and defend them when the arowl come. That’s why Lanyon stayed behind. She’s not accustomed to hunt the arowl.”

“It was once that way with us, but now we all go forth to the night hunts. Do you know why?”

He thought about it. “Is it because there are so few of you?”

“No. It is that it does not matter.”

Marshal turned to look at her pale face. Her eyes were shadowed, and seemed sad under the starlight. “What can you mean, Luven? How can it not matter?”

She tossed a tuft of grass into the stream and watched it float away. “Once, the women stayed behind to care for their babies. Now we do not have babies.”

“I don’t understand. There’s a little one in the keep that Lehe helps to watch.”

“That’s her sister, Krispin. She is three and Lehe is thirteen. There are no other children.”

“But why? There are good men here.”

“There are no good men who are not our cousins, our brothers, our uncles or our nephews. None of them will ever be a husband of mine. So you see, it doesn’t matter if the women go out to hunt the arowl.”

For sometime Marshal could not think what to say. He wondered if he had misread her meaning, but he knew he had not. “Luven, we’re bound to ride on to the Storm Lair, or if we will return to Habaddon.”

“You want to believe that’s possible, but there are arowl everywhere beyond Beyna Forest. I don’t know how you managed the journey north, but to go on is—” She fell silent, her gaze fixed upstream. Scarcely breathing, she picked up her bow. She did not stand as she nocked an arrow. Taking careful aim, she drew the bowstring back.

~~~

Zavoy entered the tunnel leading into the cavern. The darkness did not hinder him. He knew exactly the number of steps to the first turning point. The tunnel doubled back, and out of habit he looked ahead for the glimmer of witch light that should have greeted his eyes—but it was not there—and contempt was added to his anger. Surely Gonly did not believe light was required for Zavoy to find his way? A childhood of hide-and-seek in the utter darkness had taught them both the precise layout of the courtyard and the keep. No, it must be that Gonly had put out the lights to confuse and frighten his quarry. Zavoy could have called the lights on again, but he did not. There was nothing to be gained by warning Gonly of his approach.

His heart was bitter. He was accustomed to defiance and criticism from Gonly, but until tonight he had not believed his cousin capable of betrayal. Even now he was sure it would not have happened except under Renthian’s direction—and that was worse. All his life Zavoy had trusted the ghost as his teacher, his mentor, his counselor, but trust was gone.

He reached the end of the tunnel, and realized yet more was amiss. With the witch lights out it should have been easy to discern the ghost sentry on the ledge, or some faint gleam of starlight from the cliff windows, or the glow of firelight from beneath the keep’s doors, but the darkness was perfect. Indeed, he soon found that the doors stood open. The air within was warm from the fire, but the fire’s light was utterly hidden.

He knew then it was not Gonly, or even Renthian who sought to hinder his steps. It was the Inyomere of Darkness. Zavoy had gone many times into the deep reaches of the underworld to hunt for that spirit. It was his ambition to make a mask of its blank face and a robe of its lightless skin, and in such garb he would be free to roam the night, for the arowl would never see him. But now the Darkness had laid claim to Zavoy’s keep and he dreaded what that might portend.

The horses were restless, having gone many hours without food. They snorted and stamped, and nickered for his attention—making a noise that masked what might have been a faint, scuffing sound from the floor above. Zavoy was eager to investigate, but he went first to the kitchen. “Lehe,” he whispered, and to his relief, there came a faint answering tap. The children of Samokea were taught from infancy to fall silent and to hide if danger threatened, and Lehe had obeyed this earliest training. “Is Krispin with you?” Another tap. “Stay quiet. I will be back.”

Zavoy crossed the hall, counting his steps until he passed the horses. He paused at the foot of the stairway. Again he thought he heard a faint scuffing from above. He knew the Inyomere of Darkness came and went without sound, but Gonly had never learned to hunt in silence. Zavoy had no wish to take his cousin’s life so he put his spear aside. Leaving his bow in its case, he took two darts into his hands and climbed the stairs. He was but one step from the top when he heard a soft brush of cloth on cloth. He ducked as a dart whirred past his shoulder. Then he threw his own darts—one, two—but both struck stone and rattled to the floor. Gonly had better luck, or else his aim was guided by the ghost, for his second dart struck Zavoy in the thigh.

Zavoy hissed and fell forward across the landing. At once Gonly dove on him, but he was as blind as Zavoy and he misjudged, seizing Zavoy around his hips but leaving his hands free. Zavoy wrested another dart from his quiver, just as a cold light fell over them. The ghost Renthian had manifested. In his faint glow Gonly saw the dart. With one hand he hammered Zavoy’s wrist against the stone floor. He clapped his other hand across Zavoy’s mouth and nose in a suffocating hold, backed up by his weight. Zavoy could not breathe. His weapons were grinding into his back, and his skull was being crushed against the floor... yet it was Gonly’s eyes that were wide with fear. “Do not fight me, my cousin! I wish you no harm.”

Zavoy ignored this plea, hammering at Gonly’s ear with his free arm.

“Zavoy! Zavoy. I will let you go. Just swear you will not speak out against Renthian! Swear it.”

Zavoy could not swear to anything. He could not speak. He could not breathe. His chest felt on fire. He hammered one more blow at Gonly’s ear—and Gonly’s grip slipped. Zavoy wrenched his head from under Gonly’s suffocating palm. He gasped. And then he jammed his elbow into his cousin’s throat, sending him sprawling on the floor.

“Renthian!” Zavoy tried to stand, but his leg was disabled from the poison in the dart. It collapsed beneath him. He fell on his hip, but caught himself with his hands so that he didn’t go all the way down. He pulled a knife from his belt. His mercy was finished. If Gonly should renew his attack... but when he turned to face his cousin, he discovered him on his knees, bent almost to the floor, struggling to breathe.

Zavoy glared up at the ghost. “Renthian, hear me! You are banished. For your assault against me, for your corruption of my cousin, you are banished. As Chieftain of Samokea I condemn you. By the pact that was made long ago by my far father I command you. Go now! Never again enter into the presence of any of my kin. Go! Cross over and be finally at peace.”

So it was that Renthian finally left the world.

Darkness returned to the hallway. Zavoy was left with a bruised skull and back, a crippled leg... and the sound of Gonly’s labored breathing. “Do not die, my cousin,” he whispered. “We are already too few.”

Then he heard another sound—voices—one that belonged to Lanyon, and another so deep it seemed to reach him through the stone. They came from somewhere above, beyond the next flight of stairs.

He put his knife away and checked his bow. Mercifully, it had not broken, so he returned it to its case. Then he crawled up the stairway.

~~~

Pantheren couldn’t tell where the Darkness had carried them, but he knew they hadn’t gone far when Lanyon whispered into existence a light that sputtered and flared in her palm. Hissing in protest, the Darkness set them down and withdrew, but before it could flee altogether Lanyon whispered again and the light faded until it was the faintest of beacons. Then the Darkness drew close once more.

They were still in the keep. The faint light showed them to be almost at the dead end of the hallway. The door of the last storage room stood open and the Darkness filled up both the room within and the hallway’s end with impenetrable shadow. Pantheren set his hand to the haft of his knife, ready to make a defense should the Inyomere advance again, but Lanyon laid a quieting hand on his arm. In a hushed voice she said to the Darkness, “I know you, don’t I? I think you must have been there the night Édan died.”

Pantheren felt the voice of Darkness reverberate in his bones. “I was there. I came when all the flames were snuffed at Siddél’s command and the smoke pushed away the light—but I don’t remember that Édan died. Siddél took him. You know this.”

“I know it now,” she conceded.

“Siddél has made a spell of oppressive weight that will ever hold open the gateway through which Édan’s life flows. You have felt the presence of this spell within the Mere. I know you have.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Lanyon asked, “Do you speak of the time Édan was wounded at Kesh? I remember the presence of a dark and dreadful spell that day, but I didn’t know its name. I couldn’t even look at it.”

“Édan knows its name. I whispered it in his ear when I found him again. Siddél had hidden him away, but not from me. In a dank hole beneath the arowl pits where Siddél conjures his blasphemy the light could not find him, but I was there. I brought him hope. The spell that binds his life is powerful, yet easily broken. I told him this. Its name was on his lips. He had only to utter it and his suffering would end.”

Lanyon answered plaintively, “He escaped Siddél. I have seen him. So he did not speak its name.”

Pantheren’s grip on the knife tightened as the Darkness loomed closer to Lanyon. “Your choice is different,” the spirit told her. “We are of the same kind, you and I, and it is your right even as the least of our kin, to walk ageless within or without the Mere.”

“You mistake me. I am of the people.”

“You are changed. When you called the deep spell that took you away from the world, you became something other than what you had been. Has not the Snow Chanter named you ‘Little Sister’? Has not Siddél acknowledged you even in his wrath? Heed me now and I will whisper to you the name of a spell that will enfold you with all the will of the Inyomere.”

“Do not tell it to me!” Lanyon cried. She pressed her fingers in her ears, making the light dance crazily. “I do not want to know.” But at once she recovered herself. Standing straight again, she raised her luminous palm, pushing the Darkness back. “Why have you come here? Was it Siddél who sent you? Is it the talisman you seek?”

At mention of the talisman the Darkness swept around her, in defiance of her light. So swiftly did it enshroud her that Pantheren could not strike at it without also harming her. He stood helplessly by as it crooned in a seductive voice, “Will you give it to me?”

Lanyon was calm. “No, I will not.”

The Darkness persisted. “Heed me, little sister. Give me this spell. I promise you I will not use it. I will only hide it away so that no harm will come of it, and in return I will teach you to walk ageless for all time, and you will belong to the Wild and none will restrain you.”

Her eyes sought Pantheren. “War Father? What do you think of this offer? Shall I make myself one among the blessed Inyomere?”

“He does not understand the people.”

“He does not understand that we love one another. I would not want to live into an age when the last of the people are driven into the sea, or worse, when the Wild itself should fail.” She spoke again to the Darkness. “Heed me, Blessed One. Tell me the way to the Storm Lair, and I will teach you what it is to have a purpose.”

The Darkness hissed its displeasure. It grew in size, enclosing them both in choking proximity. “That is no gift, but a curse on us! There was nothing to trouble us when we knew only the present moment. Only when the people taught us of the future did we begin to imagine a purpose there—but it is our punishment and our peril that we do not all imagine the same thing.”

Lanyon answered this gently. “My purpose is to end the Long War. Will you tell me the way to the Storm Lair?”

“That is not my task. I am done here. Your fate is upon you.” His shadows unwound from around them, withdrawing into the sanctuary of the storage room.

~~~

Beyond the reach of Lanyon’s tiny light, Zavoy looked on, knowing his moment was at hand. He had crept near in silence, determined to slay the Darkness, but the spirit had been so closely entwined around Lanyon that any shot he took must strike her too. So he had waited and listened—first in astonishment, then in fury, and finally in respect when Lanyon spurned the dreadful gift of the Darkness.

But now a space was opening between her and the Inyomere. Zavoy rose up on his one good knee and set an arrow to his bowstring... but his shoulder brushed the stone and Lanyon heard him.

~~~

Reflected starlight gleamed in Luven’s pale hair as she bent her bow, sighting along the arrow’s shaft at a target just upstream. Marshal crouched beside her, his spear in hand, ready, though for what he did not know. He had heard no sound beyond the chattering water and a whisper of breeze in the tree tops. He had smelled no beast. He strained to see what Luven saw—but then he saw something else.

With a soft cry he touched her arm, unbalancing her just as she released the bowstring. Her aim was spoiled and the arrow went chittering into the grass. Upstream, there was a flash of motion, and a little silvery Inyomere that had appeared on the bank vanished with a splash into the water. “You might have killed it!” Marshal cried. “You must take care where you aim.”

“I would have killed it, for I always hit exactly where I aim! That was an Inyomere! Why did you interfere?”

Marshal drew back, astounded. “Because it was an Inyomere! You cannot have meant to slay an Inyomere?”

“It’s a rarity in these days! There are not many left to be found. And you spoiled my shot.”

“You’re angry. But the Inyomere are not meant to be slain. How can you think otherwise?”

“Do you know so little of the story of the Wild? The Inyomere made the arowl. They brought on the fall of Samokea—”

“That was Siddél! It was not all the Inyomere together.”

“—and they have been at war with the people every since Jahallon first set foot on the shore of the Wild.”

“They are the Wild! They keep it sweetly. This stream—it is your favorite place in all this soulless forest, because it has a soul. It has a keeper... and you would have slain it this night if I had not been here.”

“The streams still run, the forest grows, the fish can still be found, even after our enemies are gone.”

“The flies multiply,” Marshal countered. “The weeds grow to choke the young trees. The fish are few and small. The water grows foul. The breeze bears always the scent of decay. Thorn trees sprout where there were once beneficial trees. All that is beautiful fades.”

“I have seen all these things you describe, but the loss of the Inyomere is not their cause. It’s because Beyna Forest is watered in the blasphemous blood of the arowl.”

“That is not the reason.”

“You don’t want it to be the reason! Because you think we are evil. You think our ways are evil.”

Marshal felt a sudden, icy chill on the night air. He turned to look, though he knew already what he would see: a ghostly glimmering only a few steps away among the trees. It was one of the lesser spirits, not Renthian, but still his heart beat faster, remembering the cold grip of Renthian’s will. “It is true, I have felt evil here,” he said to Luven, his voice low. “I will say only this against your ancestors who linger—that their advice is not to be trusted. Of Gorem’s discourse with the arowl, it’s as Jakurian said—their evil enters into us when we behave as they do. Of your attack against us—”

“You have not forgiven us for that,” she lamented bitterly. “Though we have explained why it was done. The ghosts believed Lanyon Kyramanthes to be Siddél’s witch, and she does have about her the aura of the Inyomere. It was not foolish of us to be cautious.”

“It is evil, that your people despise the Inyomere, and aim to destroy all in this land. It is wickedness. Luven, you must forswear it.” His voice softened. “Do this for me, Luven. I beg you. I could not stay another night if I knew your hands might still commit such an act... and I do not want to leave here just yet.”

She might have answered him in temper, but at that moment the land forgot its duty to be still. Both looked up as they sensed a tremor racing toward them from the mountains. They felt it as a frantic vibration within the ground, faint at first but swiftly growing stronger. Starlight shivered in the stream and the water ceased to flow.

~~~

Lanyon had forgotten Gonly, but when she heard a soft brush of sound from the hallway she remembered him again. In fear, she raised her light. The Darkness retreated, leaving the hallway revealed. It wasn’t Gonly hunting; it was Zavoy. He crouched on one knee, his bow drawn, though the arrow wasn’t aimed at her. His target was the Inyomere of Darkness.

She spoke the fire spell just as a temblor arose from the roots of the mountain to shake the keep. The arrow shot forth, transformed into a dart of white flame that struck stone and disintegrated as hot ash.

There was a sudden jolt, as if the entire keep had been lifted up an inch and dropped.

Then all was quiet.

The spirit of Darkness had fled, but the shadows in the hallway grew heavier. “Alaurea,” Zavoy said, summoning the witch lights to reignite, but they were smothered by an oppressive presence. Even the faint glow that Lanyon held in her palm faded away, while the three of them were squeezed together like mice in a man’s cupped hand. Soon nothing could be seen, and there was no freedom to move.

Pantheren spoke in anger. “Zavoy, is this your spell?”

“It is not. There is some great spirit drawing near.”

Lanyon felt it too. She had stood in the presence of the Snow Chanter, and cowered before Siddél, but in neither of those great Inyomere had she sensed such power. “It is he who shakes the mountains,” she whispered. “Did not the Snow Chanter tell us of his wrath? He is Mukarigenze of the mountain roots.”

Zavoy said, “Then the Darkness spoke truly and our fate is upon us.”

Nothing could be seen and no spell of light would come to them. The shadows that enclosed them had turned to stone.

They listened helplessly as a voice spoke, low and rumbling and full of anger. It seemed to Lanyon the mountain above them trembled with each accusing syllable: “What wickedness infests the people that you seek to slay the petty spirit of the stream and the Blessed Darkness? Do you war against the blasphemy of Siddél? Or do you embrace it?”

Zavoy answered, “Always we war against it! But the blasphemy does not belong to Siddél alone. It is shared by those Inyomere who refuse to contend against him.”

Lanyon was horrified by these words. “That is not true. You are misled! The petty Inyomere do only as their natures allow and it is only a few among the greater spirits that may consider what else might be. Zavoy, forswear this wickedness! Our only enemy is Siddél.”

“Lanyon is right,” Pantheren said. “The Inyomere are the soul of the Wild, and though we fear many and love few, we must not judge them... for we will surely find them wanting.”

The keep trembled as Mukarigenze answered: “Once there was no need of judgment, when the Wild was perfect and complete. Now change has found us, and time cannot be wound up again. All among the greater Inyomere have been affected by our knowledge of the people and their ways. Siddél has been corrupted utterly. I despise his defilement! And for this reason alone I have heeded the prayers of the Snow Chanter. She asked that I affirm your purpose and this I have done. I sent the Darkness to test you and you could not be dissuaded.”

“And we never shall be!” Pantheren said with great passion. “It is our purpose to love the Wild, and to defend her against the defilement of Siddél.”

“But if you had not come?” Mukarigenze asked. “Then the Wild would need no defense.”

This was a cruel truth that none of them wished to consider, but Zavoy countered it with an equal truth, “And still we are here.”

Then came a terrible sound as if great stones were moving against one another and all three imagined their last moments in the world had come... but the sound receded, and when Mukarigenze spoke again, his anger seemed less. “The will of the One remains a mystery. I will wait and watch, but only for a little time. The Wild can hardly endure its wounds, and an end must be made.”

“And so it will be,” Lanyon answered meekly. “The Long War will end when we have slain Siddél.”

They felt another tremor, but it was faint. The shadows around them softened and the witch lights ignited of their own accord. The three of them were revealed again to one another, and Zavoy turned away, shame-faced. “I forswear the past,” he said in a trembling voice. “From this day on, we serve the Wild.”

~~~

When the first tremor was past, Marshal and Luven gathered up their things and ran with all haste toward the keep. Before they reached it, a second, lesser tremor passed beneath them and in their fear they clung to one another, listening to the clatter of falling rocks on the cliffs.

They had ventured far into the forest, and so they came late to the keep. They met Kit in the meadow, and Halméd was nearby. Both were working swiftly to cut grass for the horses. “All is astir within,” Kit warned. “Our night hunt was a dull task compared to the adventure Pantheren and Lanyon enjoyed by staying ‘safely’ within the keep.” He related what little he knew of Gonly’s treachery and the visit of a great Inyomere.

Luven heard his words and hurried inside, but Halméd and Kit both pressed Marshal to stay and help them gather fodder. When later they went in, Marshal glanced up at the ledge and was surprised to see a youth named Penrik keeping the watch. “Where is the ghost sentry?” he wondered aloud.

Halméd too was puzzled and he called the question up to Penrik, who did not seem pleased to answer it. “Zavoy has done a grievous thing—that is what is being said—and all the ghosts are gone.”

Only then did Marshal realize he had seen no ghost since the first tremor, and Kit and Halméd recalled they had encountered none since leaving the hunt. Halméd looked fearful, and together they hurried into the great hall.

Only a few people were about, and these seemed tense and uncertain. None had seen any ghosts since the hunt.

The horses, at least, had some pleasure. They nickered and snorted at the scent of the grass, and fell to at once when the fodder was laid down for them.

Not long after, a call was heard from above that everyone should come down to the hall. Luven appeared first and she beckoned to Marshal and Kit to come forward and sit. Others came down. Among them were Lanyon, Pantheren and Jakurian. Last to descend was Zavoy with his cousin Gonly and two others. These two stayed close beside Gonly, while Zavoy went to stand before his people. His face was bruised and his mood was grim. He lifted his gaze to the outskirts of their gathering and some who watched him turned to look as well, but for the first time in memory no ghosts haunted the shadows beyond the fire’s light. Zavoy had banished Renthian, never guessing that all their other ghosts were bound to the world by the old sorcerer’s will. Now all of them were gone.

Chapter 25

The next morning Lanyon again arose early and went to look out the cliff windows, but she hesitated on the bridge when she saw Zavoy standing watch. He beckoned to her. “You do not need to fear me.”

She approached reluctantly. Zavoy had forced Gonly to stand before the people and confess his violence, and afterward to suffer the stern rebuke of his kin; but in the end it was agreed Gonly had been misled by the ghost Renthian, and after he swore his loyalty to Zavoy, he was forgiven.

Lanyon looked on Zavoy’s haggard face and suspected he had not forgiven himself. She wondered if he had slept at all.

Outside it was a sunny day and the forest was bright with autumn colors, but as Lanyon stepped up to a window she was dismayed to hear again the loathsome clamor of arowl. “Where have these beasts come from? Was last night’s hunt only a dream?”

Zavoy answered bitterly, “The past night was real. All of it. But the arowl come upon us always in great numbers.”

By their snarls and barks Lanyon guessed the beasts had found the bodies of their fallen kin, and that they fought one another for the privilege of consuming them.

“You cannot leave tonight,” Zavoy told her.

“It is not a choice! Mukarigenze is watching, and he has promised to wait only a little time.”

“He is Mukarigenze of the mountain roots. He has existed since the beginning of all things. What does such a spirit mean by ‘a little time’?”

Lanyon puzzled over this. “I do not know,” she confessed.

“It is surely more than the time between one day and the next?”

“I do not know. Perhaps.”

“Our ghosts taught us much of history and I think not all of it was wrong. I know the curse of Siddél was only newly laid on Jahallon-the-Undying when your far father Kyramanthes was conceived. It’s said that something of Siddél’s nature passed into him, so that his people were ever admired as the fiercest fighters on the battlefield... but they were known for rash tempers and impatience too.”

“Is this the advice you would offer me? That I should defy my temper and wait until the arowl all consume one another?”

“Why do you twist my words?”

“Why do you assail my judgment and my confidence?”

He took time to consider his answer. “Last night I heard the Darkness speaking. So I know Édan still lives. I know you have seen him.”

Shock overcame her, and she turned away.

“You were afraid to tell us. I don’t blame you.”

She raised her hands helplessly. “He will come after me. That is why I cannot stay here.”

“How far behind is he?”

“A few days or many days, I don’t know. He’ll perceive your people from far away, and he will sense the talisman when he comes near.”

“He will not perceive us. We all wear the glamour of the Inyomere so that we are hidden within the Mere, just as you are. Even baby Krispin is protected by a glamour cast by her sister Lehe. We are masters of hiding, Lanyon. We have to be.”

At his urging she told him all that had happened and all she had seen. She ended by saying, “We think he brands his arowl. All the beasts that came with him to Kesh were marked with diagonal scars on their cheeks or shoulders. If you see any such, they are likely his, though if they hunt at his command or have run away, I can’t say.”

“I haven’t seen arowl with such markings, and the dire wolves you describe haven’t found their way to us yet... I dread the day they come.” His frustration showed in the set of his face, and in the whiteness of his knuckles as his fist clenched. “If the ghosts were still with us they could have kept watch for such monsters... and warned us of Édan’s approach.”

“Or they might have shown him the way to your keep.”

Zavoy sighed. He went to the window, to listen again to the morbid howling of the arowl. “I made a rash choice when I banished Renthian. It was the right choice, but I made it out of anger. Do not make the same mistake. Do not choose rashly. You are more afraid of what is behind than of what lies ahead, but do not let fear guide you to a misstep. Édan will come, but it will not be today or tomorrow. Wait, and pray the arowl will disperse. Otherwise I fear that when he comes he will only need to look for the talisman among your bones, if any are left.”

~~~

Lanyon heeded Zavoy’s words.

That day passed, and then another, and another after it. Each morning she watched the forest, and listened to the sounds of the arowl hunting, and it seemed to her they grew more plentiful, not less. What they hunted was a mystery. Rabbits, perhaps. Or birds. The larger game was long gone, and all the arowl that she chanced to see from the window were starved and desperate. Yet still they came.

Zavoy called another night hunt, and forty more of the beasts were slaughtered, but it made no difference. New packs swept in to Beyna Forest to feast on their fallen kin. “They follow the blood scent,” Kit said, on a day when he and Pantheren came to watch with Lanyon. “They must smell it even from very far away.”

Lanyon was in agreement. “If the hunting stops, there might be fewer arowl in this land.”

“That’s my feeling too,” Pantheren said. “But the hunting cannot stop. There is no great store of food here. The people must fish, and gather from the forest. Since we have come, there are five more mouths to feed, plus forage for the horses. Yet they cannot move about, save in the precious hours after the arowl are slaughtered.”

The season was growing old, the trees giving up their autumn brilliance as spent leaves cascaded to the ground. “We can’t stay here,” Lanyon said with despair in her voice, “and yet we cannot go on.”

Kit glanced at the woman standing watch at the other end of the ledge. He lowered his voice. “Marshal is not unhappy to linger here. When the way opens, I’m not sure he’ll choose to go on with us.”

~~~

Zavoy was at work in the hall with Luven, Halméd, and many more of their people, spinning the fine thread they used to make cloth. Luven was trying to teach the craft to Marshal, inspiring much merriment, for his threads were uneven and tended to snap at every few turns. Lehe looked in amazement at a knotted length of thread from Marshal’s spindle. “How do you make your cloth if you do not know how to spin?” she wondered.

“Perhaps instead of spinning, these southerners use a spell to get their cloth,” one of the women said with a laugh.

Luven gave Marshal an arch look. “Is it true, Marshal? Is cloth woven from spells in Habaddon?”

He laughed. “No, but only a few there are spinners and weavers, who make the cloth for all. I do know how to cut and sew cloth to make clothes. I know how to make leather. I have some skill at woodwork too.”

Luven answered this in a teasing voice, “It is good to know you are not altogether useless.”

He caught her eye—“I have other skills”—and her cheeks grew warm.

But Lehe did not notice this. “Do you know stonework?” she demanded. “Or have you knowledge of a forge?”

“I have used a forge,” Marshal said hesitantly. “Though only to help my uncle cast arrowheads.”

Zavoy said, “Then perhaps we will employ you in that task.”

“I should be pleased to do what I can to help.”

“So long as it is not spinning,” Halméd amended, and they all laughed.

“But where do you keep your forge?” Marshal wondered. “Is it in this same cavern?”

Luven’s eyes sparkled. “I could show it to you, but it is in a high chamber at the end of a long tunnel, and I know you are uneasy in tunnels.”

“I am brave enough at need.”

“There is little to see there,” Zavoy said, suddenly terse.

Halméd did not agree with his cousin. “Oh there is much that is interesting. Marshal is sure to find pleasure in that place. The arrowhead molds alone—”

“Arrowhead molds!” Zavoy said dismissively, shooting a dark look at his laughing cousin.

Marshal confessed a keen interest in arrowhead molds. “I would be pleased to see them.”

Luven put her spindle aside. “Come then. I will show you.”

Marshal set his own work down and followed after her, but as they reached the foot of the stairway, Zavoy said, “Lehe, why don’t you go with them?”

Halméd countered this at once. “Oh no,” he said, catching his little sister by her hand before she could follow. “Lehe has promised to help me in the kitchen.”

Marshal caught Luven’s eye once again, and they traded a smile.

~~~

They went to the third story of the keep. To the left the hallway dead-ended among storage rooms, but on the right there was a door at the end of the passage. It opened onto a rough tunnel angling steeply upward, lit by witch lights set far apart. “You ask me no questions,” Luven observed.

“I am all attention.”

They followed the tunnel to the chamber where the forge was kept. Sunlight fell through windows cut high in the walls, illuminating the forge beneath columns of drifting dust. There were work benches and racks of tools. Blackstone was piled in the shadowed corners. Luven stood within a column of sunlight, gazing up at blue sky. “The smoke vents to the outside, so we use the forge only when there is rain or fog, so that the smoke will not be seen.”

Marshal thought she looked incomparably beautiful standing there, ethereal, as if she were on the verge of dissolving into the light. “Luven—” He reached for her hand, and she drew closer. He could not remember what he had meant to say. Or anyway, it didn’t matter. He took her in his arms, and their lips met. No kiss he had known in Habaddon had ever stirred him like that kiss. “Ah, Luven,” he sighed. “I think I came north to find you.”

“I think it is so,” she whispered. “It must be. I have longed for you all the days of my life.”

The howling of the arowl could be heard from the forest far below them, but it didn’t seem to matter.

~~~

Days passed. There was no respite in the number of arowl and finally Lanyon insisted she would leave anyway. Marshal heard her decision with sadness, but he had promised to help slay Siddél, so with many tears he said goodbye to Luven. But after they had gone only five miles, the howls of a hunting pack rang out around them, and Kit’s horse went into a panic. It threw him and fled all the way back to the cavern, forcing their return.

For days after the arowl were so abundant there was barely a chance to gather forage for the horses. In that time Luven learned she was with child. There was much celebration, and Marshal called her his wife and Luven named him as her husband and it was agreed they were married.

Still, Marshal insisted he would come when Lanyon tried again to leave. This time they left the horses behind, and Pantheren told Zavoy he should slaughter them for food in the winter.

Luven stayed in the keep with Lehe, but the others went north a few miles, until Zavoy said they could go no farther. Goodbyes were said and Zavoy returned south with his people. The southerners went on, but three hard-fought battles before midnight convinced them to retreat, and both Jakurian and Marshal returned with wounds.

~~~

Winter came hard to all the Tiyat-kel, that great range of mountains that began in southern Samokea and marched north into unknown lands. From the petty Inyomere Siddél had learned of the return of the Snow Chanter and as the days grew short he brought his rage to bear upon her. Storm after storm howled through the peaks standing high above Samokea-of-old, and the snow fell. Day after day the flakes swirled and tumbled into great drifts and shining white cliffs, as Siddél sought to lock Tayeraisa again in ice.

Tayeraisa watched him from her secret haunts, and laughed. Siddél was thunder and blundering rage, while she was the Snow Chanter. Each swirling flake danced at her direction. Each tiny crystal of ice delivered to her a kiss of vigor. Her wintry soul fed on Siddél’s mad anger and she was renewed. She opened her arms to the north and sang for more.

~~~

Beyna Forest was lashed by each storm that passed to the south. The trees were stripped bare. A heavy blanket of snow was laid on the ground and Lanyon gave up all hope of escape before the spring.

The only tracks to be seen in each fresh snowfall were those of the people and the arowl, hunting one another. There were no birds left anywhere. The rabbits had all gone from the forest. The fish had disappeared from the streams. Provisions stored up over the summer dwindled rapidly.

Gonly was heard to mutter that such was their punishment for defying Renthian, but no one listened. Even his wife Gorem tried to turn his mind to other things. For six generations the Samokeäns of the Cavern had depended on their ghosts as counselors, watchmen, and sages. Their loss should have been disaster—but instead a mood of hope and gladness took root among them. Though the forest was barren and there was little to eat at each meal, and though the arowl grew ever more plentiful, still there was joy among them. “It’s as if the weight of the past has been lifted from us,” Zavoy confessed to Marshal, one evening when they sat beside the hearth. “This winter will be hard, and perhaps we will starve before the days begin to warm, yet for the first time in our memory our world is changing and there is hope in that.”

The first of the horses was slaughtered on the day of the Solstice. That evening Zavoy ordered double rations to celebrate the turn of the year, and there was song and laughter in the great hall, but even before the fire began to die down, Marshal and Luven slipped away.

They had kept their nights in Luven’s little chamber on the second floor of the keep. The room was chilly, but beneath their blanket they made their own pocket of warmth.

Luven had eaten well that night, yet when Marshal’s large hands measured the curves of her body, he both loved and feared what he felt. She had been thin—wraith-like—on the night he first saw her, pale, and so delicate in build. As winter deepened, she’d grown thinner still, yet she was filled with joy, greater even than her kin. For Luven—who had believed all her life that she would have neither husband nor child—her pregnancy was a miracle potent enough to dispel all worries.

“My husband,” she chided him, her face seeming blue in the faint glow of a tiny witch light. “Why do I see this weight in your eyes? Have you not promised to leave your worries in the hallway outside our door?”

“I confess I cannot put them down so easily.”

“Does your love fade so soon?” she teased. “Have you learned already to keep your head when you come into my arms?”

“It is the opposite. I could not bear to lose you.”

“Come then. Fill me with your warmth.”

Afterward, Marshal’s sleep was fitful and finally he awakened fully. He held his breath and listened, and from the hallway he heard a swift, scratching scurry.

He turned to Luven and set his hand over her mouth. She wakened with a start. In the glow of the witch light he saw her eyes go wide. Then they traded a look, and he took his hand away.

He arose silently and stepped into his trousers and then his boots. The hallway had gone silent again. He thought ruefully of all his weapons, left downstairs. Then he opened the door and slipped past it, into a hallway that smelled of arowl.

~~~

We hope you enjoyed this 25-chapter extended sample of The Wild, by Linda Nagata. Follow this link to BUY THE COMPLETE EBOOK from the author's website.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Map

Prelude: Summer Thunder

Part 1: The Snow Chanter

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part 2: Kesh

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part 3: Ghosts

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25